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Story of Jazz* ....... 

Blood Red Moon . . . . . , . . , 

Pickup —A Short, Short Story, . 

Not By Bread alone . . . . <» . . 

»■ V> -> l*CO . , ^ Q Q Q g ,J ,J O 3 

Poetry by Morris „ a . . » . . . 

Going Home . o . . . . . ■ 

I Love to Love . • » . . ■ 

Reminiscence » e . *> . o . 

Revolution « » . . . . 3 <= 

riL OUIoo 3 e © © o o o o o o o o 

Objective Munich . . » * . . 

Price of Remembrance « 8 . . . 

helpful Hints for Leap Year. ■ . 

Starvation in the Nock « . ? a • 



j- .-_ 


i ■? 



. Jimmy Tootle 
• .Betty Pitts 




» .Allie Baker 


Haskell Heller 



Llliam Be Baker 



o :i: ba Fishman 



. oNeal Morris 


o o o o a • e 


3 O 9 O 



o 9 a © e a a 



9 o o e o 9 o 


.Clifford Clarke 



Bob Paddi^on 



, « David Landy 



o .John Murphy 



o Eleanor Rich 




The Armstrong Mercury is a quart rl 
by £ . pong Jun 



,-•* •*. rl 

Ldentf Lleg : ur{ • 

uscripts foi ;atj on Ln i he 
butions -will be cc . . the Editor. 
Editor.... «Philli spa Kandel, Managim . Haske! 
Heller, Art Editor, Jules Bacot, r> ' Bob Pad- 
disonj Staff. & 9 , Eleanor Rich, Mercer Berry, Ruth Allen, 
Lillis Kelly. 

Contributions to the magazine were made by Mr. Murphy. 
Mr. Scarborough, and 13ob Harmon. 




3£ St 




Take a European fol'< Bong add the influence of tf 
African chants, expose it to spirituals and work chan 
of the southern Negro, interfuse the effects of Voodoi 
combine it with American ingenuity, let an early New C 
leans band interpret it, and you have the evolution ( 

Although jazz, considered by many to be the most 
portant musical expression that America has achieved, 
a growth whose sources are diverse, there can be no dc* 
of the importance of African elements. All accounts 
music and dancing" of the Negro slaves at their Sat 
day night festivities state that the dances and music 
srmbled closely that of the African natives. Simi] 
dances may be found in the Test Indies and especially 
Haiti. The Haitians, it is interestinr to note, were 
ported by the French from the same tribes that manv oi 
slaves of New Orleans originated from. 

In the rural South dance songs were encouraged as 
means of keeping the Negro happy. Work songs, in whi 
rhythmic movements was employed, and the blues, develo 
from the feeling of c r.ression, were important phases 
this secular music. 

With Emancipation the use of European instruments 
harmony and melodic s caused a definite Western influer 
on the Negro music. Casting the lead on a I'ississipp 
side-wheeler had a definite rhythm and the Neprro leads: 
-i't simply announce the depth, he chanted it. The 
on Saturday night songs which were born in the c 
ton fields or on the levee would serve as the basis f 




stomp o 

Many of the present-day ball room specialties de- 
ive from figures in Negro square dances «, These sets, 
hich were in turn strongly influnenced by European dance 
teps, allowed for improvisation by the couples, Thus 
here was a stimulus from both the music and the dancers s 
n rural districts strings and percussion generally pro- 
ided the improvised music, while in the poorer sections 
f New Orleans brass and certain reed instruments were 
sedo The piano and the saxophone were not used in early 
jazz bands o 

An interesting fact brought out by this difference 
I rural and urban instrumentation is that jazz and the 
b-called hill-billy music evolved from the same source. 

New Orleans, the birth place of jazz 5 has lost most 
t its former glory. The honky-tonks , cabarets., barrel- 
raises 9 and sporting-houses where the jazz men were 
yceS to play by unacce ig city fathers are no longer 
ive as they were in the red-light days of tion. 
toe are the' places that attached a cheap vjilgarity to 
izz that still exists in the minds of the few who 
ntinue refusing to accept jazz as : most easily 
nrprehended means of expressing musically the increased 
mpo of thoughts and actions in the twentieth century . 

This opposition of the well thinkin fathe] 
few to such a point that V ey eventually had ' ole 

d=light jazz section closed. If they had known what 
great service they were doing toward having jazz ac- 


cepted throughout the country, I doubt very seriously 
that they would have felt so pleased with themselves. Fo 
when "those places in Storyville" were closed, the jazz- 
men were forced to seek other cities in which to freely 
express themselves. What more natural route was there 
for them to follow than up the Mississippi to a city who 
name is second only to New Orleans in its importance to 
jazz Chicapo . 

Chicago, while well known for its pangs terisn, iJ 
little known for its contribution to jazz. Prior to th<J 
First World War a few widely scattered jazz rroups had 
infiltrated into this city, but with the closing of Stor 
ville in New Orleans, Chicago became the center of jaz; 
in this coxintry. 

Nightlifers were not the only ones to hear these m 
tists. Young musicians, driven by the desire to ; xprei 
their own feelings in music, heard them and were greatly 
influenced by them. But the white jazzmen met difficul- 
ties that had never confronted the Negros. They were nr 
with the disapproval of their own race, not only becausr 
it was thought that they were too immature to repress 
jazz correctly but also because it was believed that onl 
the Negro could truly express jazz. 

It took more than this, however, to discourage thes 
white jazzmen. They continued bo fight, not only for rt 
cognition of white j-zzmen, but also for recognition of 
jazz itself. Then, just at it t that the./ were on 

the threshold of success, there occurred a clump in jaz 
that many hailed and many mourned as the end of jazz. 

It soon developed, however, that this slump was ac- 
tually a complete revision of the public's attitude to- 
ward jazz. This jazz awakening hit Chicago full force 
with the advent of Penny Goodman. There followered such 
a general acceptance of jazz that today there are jazz 
bands in every little town in the country. 

Chicago, like New Orleans, has dropped out of the 
picture. The quality of Chicago jazz has dropped consi- 
derably and it shows few signs of an upswing. Few men 
have shown the artistic talent or potential ability that 
was so widespread in the early days of jazz. But the de 
cline of jazz in Chicago in no way points to a decline o 



jazz on a national scale. 

There are those today who say that jazz is dying <> 
["hat all depends on whether or not it can meet the great- 
;st challenge it ha£ thus far confronted With the in- 
rention of the atom bomb, life has taken on a new seri- 
msness that was not present in the period that saw the 
growth of jazZo Whether or not the atom bomb and other 
scientific discoveries will cut short the life of jazz 
'emains something that only the future can answer „ 

-<=-< ~~James Tootle-—- =■=» = 


by Betty Pitts 

Tonight 5 all the world was still and breathless, 

it seemed to lie in wait. 
To watch the blood red moon rise slowly over my 

latticed gate 
In all my dreams of splendor , I never could 

The very height of beauty that was taking place 

before my eyes 
For there , through the moss covered oaks., it 

seemed suspended in the blue* 
A new, full, blood red moon, surrounded by lacy 

clouds of purple hue e 
It seemed to give the world a loving, carefree 

smile o 
A wise, and ageless moon, yet pure as the unborn 

child „ 
As upon all the fleecy clouds it gently trod, 
Quietly and reverently, along the starry stair- 
way, leading up to Godo 






h\ Mlii ' • 

To begin with there was nothing very striking ab 
the girl. She was not the type you turned to look at 
appraisingly as you passed on the street. Sitting ther* 
alone at the bar she looked oddly out of place. Ker exj 
pression showed the unspoiled naivete of a child, an ex\ 
pression that was at variance with the atmosphere of th<? 
bar. She was sipping a tall, green drink. 'Creme de 
MentheJ Jim thought, watching her. 'She probably rttffcd 
the name s mewhere and doesn't know what else to order. * 

Then, through boredom and a dislike for solitary 
drinking, Jim decided to pick her up. It might be inte ■- 
restinn to talk to her, find out what a pirl like that 
was doing hanging around a gin-mill oShe was so obvious- 
ly not a bar-fly o 

The pick-up was easy, } 'c# Orleans bars seemed cor 

ducive to easy acquaintance, Jim ordered more drinks 

bourbon and water Cor himself and another one of the grc 
things Tor t rlo He found himself talkinr to he-- sir- 
ply and easily. Her complete lack of self-consciousness 
seemed to draw Him oat. Like all sailors who endure 
lonely watches at sea, Jim liked to talk about the sea. 
He hated it • uidn't leave it. Jim had a 
that ' was some lack of stability in sea-farin 
whicl made the sea th aster. The girl was at1 
letting him do the talking. When it was nc 

very brilliant nor very • lal. 

Nonetheless Jim liked this Rir 3 a1 id t 

r lack of attraction. She was complel onest, yet h 

found on1 her. Jim wan drink. Ha 

a buzz on and sa:v i for staying sobc 

was haop/ with th ■ 1 who made n on hijr 


>he refused the next drink but didn't mind sitting 
-here while he drank and talked to her. He told her 
.bout himself. He was out of work for awhile-the mer- 
hant marine had fallen off lately, A second mate's 
erth was not so easy to find as it had been during the 
ar„ It would be at least another month before he could 
et a ship out. Oh well, he had $k$0 left, he told her, 
-utting his wallet on the edge of the bar Enough to 
let by for a month. No binges included though, '.Tell, 
one after this one, he amended, 

Jim wanted to stay with this girl. To talk to her 
tome more. He had never met anyone xvhom he instinctive- 
{ liked and trusted, 'Hells Bells', this is the type 
girl a guy could marry. Settle down, maybe get a 
ind jobo With this girl he could do it. He could break 
yay from the sea- and live a normal life, 

"Tell you what", He said, eagerly, hopi^p she 
mldn't refuse, "Lets go somewhere we can eat — -and may- 
t dance," He wanted to hold her in his arms c She looked 
'j him a moment, pensively, "I'll call a cab% he said, 
if to cinch it, 

"All right, if you want to, I'll go with you", She 
ecided suddenly, "I think there's a phone booth in the 
111, you can call a cab there c 

Inside the phone booth Jim could still hear the 
jaintive wail of the juke-bcx— "How soon will I be see- 
g you—" the syrupy throb of Vaughn Monroe f 's voice « 
n came back to the bar humirdng the tune tc himself 8 
e place they had been sitting was vacant. The girl 
is gone. And with her Jim's wallet with his §k$0 a 

,Two strangers from France 
j meet in New York, 

"You spik de English .not so?" 
"A few*,, and thou?" 
"Small > 

Poised in a serpentine stance, 
"tfith only the bird's shrill herald, 
And us not noticing the advance, 
of its mounting j gray ass • -led. 

Suddenly m perceive the dark> 
The birdo, the trees are still, 
Then from the heavens a spark, 
and a clap that rings over the hill. 

Now a rumblinp, rolling sound, 
That rambles overhead ano away, 
As a wapon over the cobbled ground, 
it fades in the rushing ray. 

The rain accelerates to the po-.vdery dust, 
Like the dive of a million fire-flies, 
And over the ground a cooling crust, 
reflecting nought from the leaden skies. 

Then past, as fast, as a sudden sigh, 
So with the wind on the run, 
The curtain rises on the backstage sky, 
and crowns the clouds with the sun. 

-Haskell II. Heller- 

...A synonym is a wor' sod in place of 
or 'ou can't spell. 



by William Bakei 

When the average student is asked why he came to 
college s he usually answers "to learn to make a living'. 1 
Or if he gives some other answer s such" as "Papa said 
for me to come 5 " or "I can't find anything more profit- 
able j," the first answer is still implied and hovers in 
the back of his mind waiting to impart a greenish-yel- 
low hue to all of his thoughts on the required curricu- 

Much has been said on the value of "selling" vari- 
ous courses to the student s and usually the salesman 
has been advised to point out his particular course , 
always bearing in mind that his charges are listening 
to him primarily because they have paid their fees -and 
are now expecting to be taught how to make a living. 
Thus it is not difficult to see why the instructor is 
sometimes tempted to allow the same unhealthy hue to 
color his own attitudes. 

If it were only possible to evaluate. all courses 
jof study in terms of dollars and cents 9 how much simp- 
[ler the task of teaching would be J A lecture on Greek 
tragedy , for example s could be begun with a brief state 
ment to the effect that the following study of the ago- 
nies of Oedipus the King will assuredly mean an extra 
jL nickle in the pay envelope at some 

future date Or perhaps the biol- 
ogy instructor could comfort his 
class 3 partially pickled in formal- 
dehyde , with a glowing description 
of how a Knowledge of the shark's 
inner lay-out may result in a bonus 
five or ten years from now. Or pos- 
sibly budding mathematicians could 
be coaxed into full bloom by the 
assurance that the success or fail- 
ure of a business deal in 1955 will 


hinge upon their beinr abl< to prove beyond a reasonably 

doubt that the square of the hypotenuse of a rirht tri- 

anrle is equal to tl e sum of the squares of the other I 

two sides. 

If the serious student finds the ideas presented 

in the r ceding par traph absurd, let him examine his 

own up on the subject to discover to what extent 

he is allevvinp a shad* n to cloud hi s inner- vision. 

No ; that a few v ints have been piven on what the 

purpose »f a ccllepe due bion is not, perhaps a few 

vjords should be said "rom a ocsitive viewpeint. \ few 

years ago I accompani d a "riend to the north Georgia 

.ountains to see a bit of land and a cabin my friend 

wished to buy. The cnin was near the top of a rr.ountai 

the front ., ard ov :rloc\ed a most wonderful panorama 

peak after nisty oeak faded away into the blue distance 

a truly nwe-insoirin sif lit. But to our surprise we 

saw that the front p^ "ch I id be n boarded i ) so that 

n* s: bting there could sec nothinp but a few fe** o 

;a.r r clay. When we asked the owner why the 

vertical >oards cove .i f .he uoper half of the porch, he 

id, "Oh I just pot ;ired of the view." 

Later^ after m., Friend owned the cabin I stood on 

the porch and helped lock down the boards one by 

and \e each four-inch plank came down, my horizon 

ned t narka 1 1 • . until at last my vj 

was limit Lty ^o span the distance and 

one? norr T saw the ra fade away into misty .spacious 

scuritj o 

ght 3 suppc t , the student's position is 

-■what diff rent from that of the mountaineer? For 

whereas the old man had se n the view and walled it out-* 

an action which in Itself mipht afford enough material 

for considerable philosophic speculation the averure 

student has as yet not had a chance to prow tired of the 

vast panorama which lies before him As a matter of 

fact, he has probably seen very litile of it; and that, 

if I may venture an opinion, brings us to the definition 

of a college education: it is a cooperative enterprise 

in which the student helos the instructor tear down the 
barriers of ignorance and prejudice, and in the process 


learns, not how to make a living, but bow to gain furth- 
er insight into the art of life itself. 


Though all of heaven's sweet angels may sing, 
And their notes may ring clear in my soul, 
Though God hath made many a wondrous thing, 
In you did his goodness extollo 

Though the singing fades* in time,, in time of stress 

And dimishes to a feeble sounds 

My cares and heartaches I do suppress, 

For God's music in you I have found „ 

If thou the shadow of Death may choose, 
And filling my heart with much strife, 
Thy Godly grace thoushalt never lose 
In the external halls of life 

And so, if these word are read through time, 
Thy beauty my dear, shall reign sublime o 

Rita Fishman 

Definition of an expert-- a man who knows more 
and more about less and less until he 
finally knows everything about nothing «, 




ftt^^gZ?\&A <&&&££A 




T often nroam of roinp home, 

°f goinp home to stay, 

And wanderinp 'cross the wooded lawns 

Where children used to olay 

Pow wonoeri'nl the days of past 
Have lin ered on with me 
•To crown the years of sorrow with 
childhood ecstasy. 

Mo story-teller can rebuild 

T^e days of careless play 

As children nold thev ph the years 

To take alonp the way, 

lor time itself can prow too old 
*o look again with joy 
Pack to the days of /eatery ear 
fihen I was just a boy. 



I LCV:^ ro LC f£ 

T love the great, the sprawlinr : aces; 
A million souls, a million faces; 
The bad, the <-rod, t .e stronr, the weak; 
1} want bo find, the will to seek. 

I love the earth, the silent sky; 
The peaceful brooks, the mountains high: 
The poor, the rich, the snail, the rve:r. . 
I love to love, and hate to hate. 


Wow T embrace the ,; avs of yore; 
Recall their, as I've done before. 
I feel the 'ouch of silent skies; 
The war-rath of teardrops in my eyes, 

I see a rare of long a/ >; 

A ruffled skirt, a ribbon bow; 

A tender hand, a timid kiss; 

A day of dreams, a night of bliss; 

romise and a sweet embrace; 
A vow and teardrops en her face. 
\h yes, a lifetime I recall, 

t spent, for now it's ended - ail. 

.. I r . 



I heard the haunting echo of a cry fron 

yonder spaces, 
\nd turned my eyes to watch the wrath on 

drawn and happard faces 
"hat struppled with a world unyielding, 

unseeing, and unled; 
i. world that cast its gifts to monarchs, 

and its flowers to t v e dead. 

I heard the trobbinp rumble of a 

revolution growing, turned my ears away from it to hide 
t\ e fear of knowing 

revolution leaves its wake - war 
ars its ugly head 
"* th the fury of a thunderstorm to prasp 
its many dead* 

A id the hunpered bore their bellies 

through the misery and pain, 
'f ' th + heir unled banners flowinp in 

tre air with naupht to rain; 
? >r inp hands were cunning, and 

their purpose could not run 

^od of all tie masses, lest 

their treasure be undone. 

So the war clouds lent their color 
to the banished of the world, 

■ were filled with shoutinp , 
and the 1 >abtle-flars unfurled, 
recess of the nation 
Mtion, war, and strife - 
ish in mankind's belly with 
3 own unglea 'e. 




Well, kid, I hear it up the road; 
That army bull-dozer pushing a load 
of cold dirt over your dead buddies „ 

All the other boys have gone back; 

"For another briefing ■=- another attack, 

so more can go the way you've gone Q 

I should go back too, but your unseeing eyes 
Staring hopelessly up at the overcast skies 
somehow help hold me here Q 

! S strange — you there, not seeing 
Me standing here, and my being 
so thoughtful about a corpse 

There are no flowers — no funeral hymn; 
No saddened comrade who can condemn 
your being killed so young „ 

Your pockets stripped of all they held 
By unthinking kids who want to sell 
or swap some "real war souvenirs" , 

It doesn't matter now to you 

If hands grope, or the sparkling dew 

settles on your bloated face 

If you had dreams and hopes as I 
Still do, when the order came to die, 
the bomb killed them, as well as you 

Well, kid, I hear Lt coming up the road; 
That army bull-dozer will push a load 
of cold dirt over you too 

But, as the sod absorbs you, and you the sod 
I will fearfully turn and ask my God --- 'Why? 
__-_Ciiff or d Clarke—— 


v^ss** „ 



A \ 1 

T 'AlNT 





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5e 4/v s 


Lis T 

Q»P *% 

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rjy » 


^ * co*e 



David Landy 

There isn't a thinp I wouldn't do for PKC Jimmy 
O'Brien so when he phones and says he's driving a guy to 
Munich to be transferred and would I like to come along 
for the ride, I'm glad to accept, I can keep him company 
and help him drive „ Besides, when we get to Munich I can 
look up this little gal I met on my London furlough a 
few weeks aro and, brother, that's worth looking up. She 
is a British civilian working °or the Army in Munich, 
and because my luck still runs true to form I would be 
stationed hundreds of mile? away in Heidelberg, But I 
bo visit her first chance I goto I never run 
after l s but Laura is the sweetest dish I'v<* seen 

in a loi 

en for mc hard 
Power's model, 

But while 

And naturally I can sec that si :'s fall- 
Brunette and petite, she's built like a 
with all the curves where they ought to 


waitinr for Jimmy at my billets I 
stop to reconsider o It's already 5 p.m. Even if we 
leave at once without eating suppei we'l] just get t< 
Munich in time to roll into bed. That will kill this 
Satxjrday nipht. When Jimmy comes in T tell him„ 

"Aw, don't be a wet blanket," he says<> "Look, the 
weather is beautiful „ Not a cloud in the sky. It'll be i 
swell ride and n soend all day tomorrow with this 

pal We'll come back to-norrow j?TW™T" _ i 7^ 
night." V ;/■ 

"0 o K." I saysc "It's warm now \MJ 
but let's take jackets anyway „" 

- on sounds like it 
would come apart if anyone sneezed 
at it but then most of t -ins 

in the E.T* are shot, so we don't 
worry about it too much, "B"company 
is at the top of one of the Heidle 

hills which is as nearly per- 



Objective Munich • • . «con' t. 

pendicular as you can take a vehicle without inventing 
Some new laws of gravity. By the time we get to the se- 
cond bend in the hill the re-con is groaning and wheez- 
ing like a 30 year too kick on a 10 mile hike. At the 
next bend gravity delivers the knockout punch and no 
matter which way Jimmy grinds the gears and stamps on 
the clutch we're rolling backwards. Among other things 
there is no rearview mirror so we don't see the M.P. 
jeep which is frantically trying to get out of our way 
in back of us. If you've never rolled down a hill back- 
wards like that you'll never know how heloless you can 
feel. I reach down and pull up the emergency brake and 
it had aw much effect as putting a toothpick under the 
rear wheels. 

We reach the bottom of the bend and pass the M.P. 
jeep which has pulled over to the side out of the way. 
The G.I. cops are out of their car and running toward 
us and yelling for us to stop. Which w do ? since the 
re-con has rolled off the road and up against a couple 
of sturdy German oaks. 

The MoPc's walk over to us and without a word one 
of them begins to write on his pad. When he's filled up 
the sheet he asks us for our names , Jimmy gives his^but 
he w^nts mine too in case he needs me as a witness. 
"Frank R. Spamration." 

"Serial nmmber and former rank?" he asks with a 
Dracula grin. I tell him 5 swallowing hard. 

~ "I oughta run you in now and take 
you before a summary court-martial'j 
he snarls, "The idea of running a 
vehicle in such condition. But I'm 
just going off shift you lucky dog s 
so beat it back to your motor pool 
and park that wreck. You'll hear 
from this in a couple of da^s."' 

We sit there helplessly while 
the .3rd Army cowboys elimb back in- 
.to their jeep and rattle away. 



Objective Munich ....con' to 

"An O'Brien never gives up, " s^ys Jimmy. "I'm go- 
ing to make the trip anyway. They'll never know the dif- 
ference o You still game?" 

"Huh," I nun's, brushing off my lone Hershey bar, 
"What do you think I am? A Soamration never rives up, 

So w« coax and pie id and force the re-con up the 
hill and 20 minutes and 6 he<*rt failures later we've re- 
ached "D "company. 

"Hell, I didn't think r ou were ever going to pet 
here," the first sergeant says when w- go into the or '3 
ly room. "So I let your pass-nper taice off into town 
for his P.X. rations. He'll be back in a few hours." 

"Oh, nuts," says Jimmy to me. **Let's call it off 
and go in the lorninp." 

"The trip then will be worthless to me, much as I 
love you, Jimmy boy. Nope, we'r- going tonight if we 
have to drive all night. I want to spend tomorrow with 
little Laura." 

We ask the sergeant to have this jerk call us when 
he coiies, *nd we re to my billet. Going downhill 
we found the re-con had no brakes at all, hut at least 
we wer . tr v-li ^^ forward, so we didn't mind. 

ffell, it w-~s aft*- 6 p.m. efore we get together 
with this guy who's bein~ transf'-rr-d and then we head J 
for J he Autobahn. There is still plenty of daylighl 
it's nice and warm. We drive alonr comfortably, Jimmy 
driving and me in the front seat and our transferee in 
the bacK, stretched out, leaning against his duffle ba 
Up to Karlsruhe we do all right. Then I take t'- » whee 
"Spamration," I announce condescendingly, "will now d 
monstrat- how to make time with t.Vis junk heapo" I hit] 
along at 55 and 60. Sound liJtoe all the fiends of Hades 
are loose under the hood, but that d worry me. T 
a Spamration the important bl ing is i your ob^ 
jective whatev-r ".lie cost. Jimmy cautions me to take i 
easy because it smellfl like something is burning, b^t 1 




"ave the vision of Laura to spur me on 5 and I an un- 
daunted a 

Past Karlsruhe, the shades of night begin to fall 
and suddenly it's colder than we expected it to be. We 
put on out- jackets but it keeps getting colder. The guy 
in the back has taken out his blankets and is wraoped 
in one of them like a mummy 3 head and all We take the 
other one and drape it over our legs and laps* but it's 
still blowing up the Autobahn bridg.s" because this de- 
tour goes on and on and gets rougher and soon we're 
rattling around like skeletons an a tin roof e We get 
off the first detour and a sign says "Munchen^ 225 km s " 
We wonder what's going on because the last sign said 
"16$ km " Then we realize this detour is not only tak- 
ing us roundabout s but backwards 3 too But we have to 
follow the arrows and road markers because we have no 
map By now we're beginning to believe the Germans have 
turned the signs around as part of some devilish sabo- 
tage plot Another half hour of detours and a sign 
says "Stuttgart ?0 km a " The last one had said "Stutt- 
gart s 6? km " 'Taint funny no morel 

It is nearly midnight now and Siberia couldn't be 
any colder o Finally we get back on the Autobahn e We 
pass a service station and gas up and even though the 
he j.t is coming out of the motor like an arm;- 'field 
stove there's plenty of water still in it„ We can't 
figure it out, and we wouldn't take time to even if we 
could We hit the 'Bahn again c 

Jimmy has curled ur> ^n the front seat and lias rone 
to sleep o I'm battling with my eyelids and losing 
ground fast 5 but a sign says "Augsburg s hd km 5 " so I 
know we can't be far away Then it happens „ The rattle 
which had been slow and steady all through the trip 
changes to a dull thumping s then a loud roar e I pull 
over and cut off the ignition just as hell broke loose 
under the hoocu I let her cool off £or a moment and 
then step on the starter A spring wa-a-ngs out and 
falls onto the floorboards, Then I can't even get a 
noise out of the starter „ The engine's deader than the 
Third Reich. 

Jimmy 5 -Who could have slept through Operation 



Crossroads, snoozes on. I shake him and he cofies out 
shivering. My teeth are chattering. We raise the hoo 
and look at the motor, striking matches. "What I don't 
know about cars," Jimmy says, slapping himself in the 
face to keep awake, "would fill a book." "What I don'1 
would fill a whole library," I says, claopinf my hands 
together to keep from freezing to death. My watch say 
1:30. We're on one of those lonely stretches on the 
'Bahn' that looks like you're at the end of the world 
this time of the morning. There are no trees anywhere 
and the haystacks look ghostly in the moonlight that i] 
luminates the nearby fields. 

"Hey, I've got it," Jimmy yells suddenly. 

"Steady son," I says, putting a hand on his shoul- 
der. "Better men than you have had it, Maybe penicil 
lin— " 

"The guy in the back seat used to work in the mot< 
pool. He light to know something." So together we dra 
the guy i com under his blanket and make him lo«k at thq 
motor. i!e has a flashlight and seems to know what he'j 
doing. "Hmm," he says, looking at the starter, poking 
around with his light, "Hmm," he says again, looking 
over other parts, sticking his head in close like a ne 
sighted soldier who got lost in a harem. "Hmm." 

"Come on," I scream. "For pete's sake, quit 'hmm- 
ing' and tell us what's wrong." He straightens up slot 
ly and scratched his cheek. "Darned if I know." Jimmi 
has to hold me. Then I have to hold him. The jerk noi 
chalantly gets back in the rear seat and wraps himself 
in his blanket. 

"You stay here with the car, Jimmy," I says. "IT 
try to thumb a ride back to that gas station. Maybe th 
can help us." 

So he gees back to his seat and curls up. I go t< 
the other side of the road and start humbing. Once i 
a while an army vehicle passes but they don't step at 
this time of night and I can't blame them; but T exhau 
my vocabulary on them, anyway. After an hour when I a 
so weak I can hardly wave my thumb, a car stops, a sle< 
speedy looking Mercedes-Benz. It's a Military Governme 
car and a German is driving. I stick my head in the w 



dow when he ro] Is the glass down and it is so warm in- 
side I leave it there . 

The German's English is as scanty as my German, but 
we finally reach an understanding. I'm about to get in- 
to the car with him when he says, smiling cutely., "Ciga- 
\ rettes?" I don't smoke and anyway, what the heck does 
1 he mean trying to hold me ud like this? I tell him so. 
So he makes it clear that it might take a long time to 
reach that station, I ask him~to wait a minute and go 
over to the re-con,, Jimmy Is fast asleep. Makes me mad 
J to see him sleeping while I'm awake md I shake him hard 
But he's out cold. So I frisk him and find a pack. I 
take out about ten butts and go back to the Mercedes . 
At the sight of the cigarettes , the German is a changed 
man. He crouches low over the wheel and the Mercedes 
chews up the kilor ters. In 35 minutes we're back at 
the station. A. T/5 who's in charge is nasty and com- 
pletely unconcerned about our plight. At first I plead 
with him. "Got nobody to send out with the wrecker," he 
;says. So I take off my field jacket and flash my T/U 
stripes at him. "Uh, maybe I can get Ernie to go if I 
can wake him up," he says, "Yeah," I says, "do that 
little thing." 

It's 3?30 a.m. and we're on our way back to the re- 
con, driving an old ambulance, since the wrecker is as 
id as our car. Ernie is at the wheel and I'm nudging 
n to keep him awake and banging my elbows against the 
•r to do the same for no. A Kraut mechanic is in the 
' 1-; with a tool kit and towing chain. "Ungcdly hour 
[• r a car to break down,," Ernie mutters. I bite my 
tongue and keep quiet. I can' tell him off after we're 
on our wiy. 

Jimnry and the other .id ire still asleep when we 
let there. The German mechanic crawls into the motor. 
About half an hour later he comes out again and brings 
' the whole starter assembly with him, he's talking a 
Thole stream of Kraut at me. All I can get is "starter 
'caput" and that's plenty. Ernie suggests we get towed 
jln and spend the night, —what's left of it — at the 
station. "While the mechanic is fixing the chains a^ 
jrack like a .U5 bullet sould very close and something 


whizzes near me. "Danged Heinie rabbits are big as deer 
but they're too fast for a .U5," Ernie is saying as he 
puts his gun back in its holster. I thought maybe the 
rabbits were just a story and he was trying to get back 
at me for rousting hin out of bed. I decide to forget 
about reprimanding him later. 

On some spare cots at the station, we thaw out and 
sleep a little. We spend the next day — a perfect summerf 
Sunday— waiting at the station for a wrecker from our 
outfit to come and tow us back to Heidelberg. All they 
had in the way of food was some soggy doughnuts and warn 
cokes, so we had them for breakfast , dinner and supper. 

Finally when our wrecker doesn't show up, we ask t} 
Joe in charge of the station to keep an eye on the re-ca 
while we hitch back to Heidelberg. One of those sudden 
thunderstorms comes up just as we're on the outskirts of 
the city. The guy we're riding with dumps us there be- 
cause he's going on to Frankfurt. When we get back to 
the billets that night we r re soaked. Next day Jimmy telj 
me his CO. has bawled him out for leaving the car at tli 
station , A soldier should never desert his vehicle no 
matter what. He is thinking about bringing charges agair. 
Jimmy under a dozen articles of war. 

And he hasn't heard from the MoP.'s yet. 

That afternoon I get Munich on the phone and talk 
with Laura. 

"Oh, I'm so-o glad you called," she says in that 
honeye<: voice of hers. 

"feah? Well look, baby, T was on my way to see yo\ 
Saturday night. Got a sudden chance to go to Munich anc 
it was too late to phone you." 

"Wha 1 , happened?" ..he a 

"Our car went on the bunk and we spent the night < 
Hitler's favorite highway." 

"Oh," she says, "how --tble." Her sympathy is 
southing me like syrup anr' ] feel like a kid. 

"Say you don't know the half of it. Wait till I -te] 
you. We — " 

"T didn't mean it was terrible about your getting 
stuck," she cuts i.n. "I mean — ^f course it was. But i 
w«-ulct have been more terrible if you had come." 




"What 8 re you talking about?" 

"I had a date Saturday night and Sunday,, too 5 "she 
.ys, but I don't detect even a hint of apology in her 

"Yeah?" I says weakly,, 

"Yes. You remember that second lieutenant I was 
filing you about , Frank? The wonderful fellow in the 
ugnal corps? Well, he asked me out and was I thrill- 
1? Absolutely thri--" 

"That's nice» Yeah, that's terrific. See you a- 
>und. So long , ; ' I hang up. I'm not in a brotherly 
>od and I'd rather not listen to the nice time she had 
,ith the looey. 

That night, while I'm deep in a gray mood with 
Lsions of growing feeble in the Bachelor's Club, Jim- 
y comes busting in. "Frank, I got a couple of Wacs 
Lned up for us tonight. They're scrumptious . You'll 
ike the one I've got for you. Just your type. Small 
runette, stacked up like—" 

" Jimmy ," I says, with dignity, "I have some imp- 
ortant things to do. I can't fritter my time away 
ith women." 

"l l Jc?" Jimmy asks, his -yes wile with surprise. 

"Mo. A man has to thin;: about the serious side 
f life once in a while. Women ar all right as a 
istraction, but /ou c.<n*b waste your life being dis- 
jr acted. 11 

"No," Jimmy says. "Well, I > ot to be. going. I'm 
ate for the date now. Se? you later." He was nearly 
ub of the door. 

"You walking or riding? I ask casually. 

"What 're you, cr^zy or something? Me ride a after 
he other night? I'm walking." 

"Then I'll come along for the walk. Put I don't 
rant to meet those girls. Just for the walk, you un- 

"Yeah," Jimmy says with a smirk, "I understand!" 

The End 






The newsboy nervously cursed to himself as he pausec 
at the corner. The second tiiie he'd been by this block 
to collect that fifteen cents and they were still there! 

He eyed the rang of dirty-nosed kids playing in tha 
dusty streeto This time they were tormenting a passing 
fruit peddler with their efforts to steal apples from the 

Trying to be inconspicuous as he walked down the 
sidewalk, the boy kept his gaze on the throng of kids. H<* 
reached the rickety steps of No Q 27 Indian Street unseen < 
THEY . Y^s, they always saw a stranger. 

One the kids in the street, his hands full of 
stolen ap- les, darted from the clutching hands of the dis 
pairing fruit seller, and yelled, "Hey, fellas, looka thd 
dope goin' up to ole lady Hagan's house . If it ain't th<3 
paper boyi" 

A fat woman, crowded into a flowery, mail-order 
house dress, leaned out one of the second-story windows , 
pushing aside a pair of soiled, tattered curtains as she 
screamed down at the urchin who had raised the yello 

"Willy, you leave that boy alone, or I'll get 
paw to whip your backside. Ain't Officer Riley been aroun 
here after you enuf?" 

The newsboy hurried up the steps of the unps 
tenement I i not too confident of the effect the 
words v. :.ave on the group. stepped through tl 
front door, then down a dimly lig] 'iallwa. bhat had 
ence b- Lnted an ugly yellow. be smell of j 
rat ; s in the musty air. The boy b ipped before one 
of the doors toward the end of the hall... room 6A c ...and 
rap] i idly. The old woman living here owed him for a 
wet. Ly of papers, Fifteen cents that was past due. 
Thr ambling in his pocket, he 

: ■: and turned the pages 


■ here it is — Carver , 

mumblinp lo himself. 

"Smith, o .Polieatskii . .Rankin, 
one reek for the paper.. .unpaid." 

He knocked again, this time a little louder and a 
little longer. She hadn't answered the last two times 
he'd been here this weekj if she wanted the paper , she 
I had better be home to pa/ her bill. Fifteen cents is 
'fifteen cents. Shifting his feet, he glared at the clos- 
?ed door, then wiped the perspiration from his face, leav- 
ing a dirty smudge where his hand had touched. 

He glanced down the hall out the open back door 
[where a broken shade flapped suddenly. Hot, stifling 
;air came in, moving with it the stale odors of decaying 
■.garbage, half -dried clothes, and a people living. The 
•crammed up flats, row on row, were visible, and there 
were sounds of the not too distant waterfront | the deep 
bass horn of some steamer on its way to foreign ports, 
mingled with the shrill whistles or continually clanging 1 
pells of the small tugs chugging their way slowly and 
patiently in the sunshine down the swift, mud-colored 
fiver. The cry of the street vendor's hawking their 
Truit pierced the air together with sounds of other traf- 
fic from further up- town. The blare directly overhead 
bf the too-loud radio announcing that perhaps poor Kate 
would escape the clutches of her plight tomorrow, and to 
m sure to buy Dump's Cream that was guaranteed to make 
Irerybody youn , desirable, and beautiful again in one 

The- boy turned back to the door impatiently and 
rowned, wrinkling his face in a scowl. It was hot 
lie re in the hall. People had c~od- 
jaying him before. He raised 
is hand to knock again, then sud- 

!, Ba-larn-mrnnU" 

He kicked the door savagely 
s if to announce that he didn't 
ntend to leave until he war answ- 
and collected . rvbs. 

icked the door again rattling 


the knob and talking to himself 

A door opened on the floor above and a man with a 
frayed undershirt and barefeet rubbed his eyes, as he 
leaned over the railway of the stairway, 

"What in the devil is going on down there?" he sai 
in a racous voice . "Can't a man get any sleep in this 

"Is the old woman that lives here home?" the boy 

"You mean right there?" 

"Yeah, I'm collecting for the news<>" 

"That's just tough for you, then, kid. She died j 
terday," the man laughed, "And she didn't leave a penn; 

"But she owes me fifteen cents?" ;|a 

"Go steal a plant off her grave for all I care, bun 
but cut the racket out down there " The man turned awzjc 
from the railing and went back to his room 

'flu boy stood undecided fcr a time, then reachi| 
in his si irt pocket to bring out a stub of a pe,i>.il 
Opening the collection book again to hfs unpaid client <; 
slowly scratched out the last witness of an old lady's 

"What a news route," he saido "Fifteen cents gone; 

He turned slowly and walked toward the front door- I 
away from the man that didn't mind the harsh voice of hi 
own radio, but did not want anybody knocking on a door 
downstairs. He turned away from the place of an old wo-i 
man's death, and away from the darkness of a hallway. 1 
turned and walked into the light and bustle of the outsi 
life, where people went on as usual, and where a gang oi 
kids still remembered and waited for him. 

"Fifteen cents," he repeated, "gone for good." 

. . • , .John Murphy. . . . 

— An optimist is a man who goes to he window in the 
morning and exclaims, "Good morning, God", while 
a pessimist rocs to the window and says, "My Gc 
it's morning r" 





VR. ^^U E1 b * h 

_ ^jx>-hL_ __**£» Eleanor Rich 

Here we are nicely launched into another leap year. 
Again, man's bane, womankind, is contesting her wits and 
charm against masculine brawn and fleeing 

Actually, an age or so ago, in- certain parts of 
Europe, there .vas a working law having to do with leap 
iyear. It seems that unless a man could prove himself 
^betrothed to the lady of his choice, he was eligible to 
any girl whose fancy he struck. Failure to meet the de- 
mands meant a orineely fine, so a girl was fairly sure 
of getting her man. Not that we moderns need a law like 
that I 

Men, vain creatures that they are, seem to enjoy 
being pursued. They derive pleasure from watching us 
■rack our delicate brains seeking new effective methods 
of approach. Yet, they'd be a pretty disappointed group 
of individuals if ve of the fairer pedigree -/wen© to 
feign disinterest J 

sing rather an experienced onserver, I have come 
bo a few conclusions pertaining to this most vital mat- 
ter -t hand which might be of interest to you lanies. 

irst: Men who profess bo be chronic woi an-haters, 
sijiind hide under a ore tense of >rofound -love only . for 
ports, books, and such, are the most likely specimens 
,o attack. As stated above, this indifference is only a 
jretense, and can quite casta • be ..are a, even .in :the 
ost extreme cases. Actually, they are as interested 
n the outcome of leap a- ar as you are. 

Second: Then, there are a precious few who have 
een attentive to jov all along. Better give them a 
acatrb »n. 

ihird: In the first maneuver, it is vise to employ 
strength of feminine poise ,and charm. I3e subtle. 



Insist that a quiet evening at heme with the noisy broth' 
and sisters adding ti the peneral a x ,ir.o sphere is far m 
desire-able than dinner at the "Sapphire Room 11 , 

Fourth ; If number three pets you no place, then trj 
form into the conventional tomboyish companion. If he 
a passion for fishing, then you bait your own hook with 
out a qualm o Or maybe he has a yen for tinkering* Sc 
blissfully, you hammer finpers, chip nail polish, sm 
grease literally across your nose, and have a superb tim 

Fifth ; if by this time no propress has been made, 
sort to the most forceful tactics, or the "Daisy Mae Tec* 
nique". Under this method,, "all is fair in love and war" 
and leap year! Do whatever you can to achieve your goal I 

Sixth s If all these methods fail, leap year will H 
nearly over by then anyway, so it's wiser to pive up and 
start plan ng the next campaign. 

Don*t let this golden opportunity slip by, pirls.Ii 
a worth cause with men in their present-day lethargic ste 
we owe it to our posterity. 

Meanwhile, game of "Old Maids", anybody? 



Jt was Tuesday last that evil fortune clouded m 
I had just finished a horrible encounter in the Chemistry 
lab when the long f inpers of hunger gripped my stomach , 
I lightly tripped off to the "Nook" . ' 

Giving the pass words ("I'll Say") at the Hoor, I 
wpdped myself through. The noise wai- parable with a ho 
adventure with "Nick Carter" on Sunday 've. 

At the crowded tables against the wall bookworms we, 
munching starving hot-dops and washinp them down with hot 
tied compounds better known as ,l 'i'r\i~/irie". h. few thousand 
more starved looking characters were crammed around the 



demi-counter, begging for nourishment with tears in 
their eyes. However , the jerks ignored them with prac- 
ticed arrogance. 

I was determined to wedge my way throurh the line 
of shouting shieks and maidens tc get a morsel of food 
to line m;/ gullet. Don't get the impression that I'm a 
brute, but often my physique has been compared with a 
sack of grits-from toe to hear 7 (toe head) I stand 5 '2 
27/32" and from stem to stern 3*6 19/32". Now that you 
have a rough estimation of my height and rti l h you won- 
der what I'm doing in here in the first place, but as a 
firm believer in Pluto I respect his wise saying, "Money 
and a Tool are soon parted." With this wise proverb in 
mind I felt that I was to make my stand. 

At approximately 12x06,638 I reached the counter, 
I figured that I had made a non-comparable record, only 
00:29.72 minutes, I survived the struggle exceptionally 
well for T still had my "T" shirt, pants, and two pages 
from my Math book left. 

Ny next move was to get the attention of the green- 
leyed monster behind the counter but she was occupies 
'with a Joe from Kokomo. Finally, I succeeded and shout- 
led my order over a commercial, r, Sn i ff the Snuff * hat Smart 
.Snuffers Sniff". You guessed it I I got snuff on rye with 
ia strawberry pop. But I wanted a 'shake with donuts, T 
I stammered. She quickly caught the bacteria infested goo 
ion the rebov^d and sarcastically apologised, quickly 
| [grabbing up a shaker and fetching the eye-dropper, she 
measured out 7 thimblefuls and 9 drops of a solution 
they call I T oo Goo. She stamper! to the other end of the 
bar and skillfully dropped a vanilla din in from 23 ft. 
In less than 16 minutes^it was done, kh yes S hiss ; > on 
accomplished. Put. .no I foiled by Joe from FCokomo i This 
was the last string. I drew out rary Amy issued oJ$wm 
"istol and shot her a clean role through oho head. It | 
was ,66lcm. from the right ear and .75mm From the righi 
side c. her lose. 

, typo writer and I are Hnd c p cramped In his 
:er but it's cozy anyway. I heard from the basement 
2 t at my fratern: ty is having a party wit akes 
and iorrats but maybe -he : 11 me some teese 

and orinso 

. -33- 


reat and strong) 

• ■ Lr harm 
Raise it with a I Lng song, 
rated is thy teachinj 
d is thy mar bio t, 
f spirit reaching 
to the light. 



• 1948 



Armstrong'! Nursery School Frank Riisa 2 

Thoughts Like Shooting Stars Betty Pitts 2 

Poetry by Conway Ma-ry Conway 

In Memor i am 3 


Studying: Pro and Con 3 

Words Can't Express 4 

A Study On Dear Papa Eleanor Rich 4 

Spring Noon Haskell Heller S 

To Montevideo By Way Of Cape Horn John Hyrne 6 

The Cold Haskell Heller 10 

The Snake's Tale Henry Coffer 11 

Caricatures Jules Bacot 12 

From The Yukon William Baker 14 

Sunday is a Jonah Day David Landy 15 

State of The Union An Anachronism Anon 17 

Package Out Mark Steadman 18 

Loneliness David Landy 24 

Quotes, Sayings and Anecdotes contributed by Van Nichols 

THE ARMSTRONG MERCURY is a quarterly magazine published by 
and for students of Armstrong Junior College. The use of any 
person's name in this magazine in fiction is to be regarded as 
coinc idence. 

Students of Armstrong Junior College are urged to submit 
manuscripts for publication in the Mercury. All contributions 
will be accepted or rejected by the editor. 

Edi tor. .Haske 1 1 Heller, Managing Edi tor . .Eleanor Rich, Art Ed* 
itor. .Jules Bacot, Photographer . .David Bergin; Sta f f . . . . Ruth 
Allen, Lillis Kelly, and Dot Stegin. 

Cont r ibut ions to t he magazine were made by Mr . 
and Mr. Murphy. 


The Mercury expresses it's thanks to the International 
Business Machine Company for the use of its' Executive Model 
Electric Typewriter. 



by Frank Rizza 

Few people realize today the importance of education for parenthood. Sev- 
eral years hence, many present-day college students will be married and be- 
come fathers and mothers. They will accept the many responsibilities of par- 
enthood but will these young parents be really capable of doing so? Will they 
be capable of rendering scientific care fo« the proper developement of their 

Armstrong Junior College, realizing this need, plans to organize one of the 
best courses possible to teach this type of education. The college will estab- 
lish a Nursery School for children. The Nursery school will be founded on the 
first floor of the Hunt Building by the college with the aid of donors and through 
the cooperation of students who are interested in building various types of cabi- 
nets, large building blocks and necessary equipment. The nursery will be used 
primarily as a laboratory for Sociology and Home Economic students, and will 
be under the constant supervision of a well-trained faculty member. 

The type of nursery school which will be established at Armstrong will have 
a two-fold purpose. First it will teach children from the ages of three to five to 
become good citizens of tomorrow for forming healthful traits and habits. Sec- 
ondly, the most important from the college point of view, the nursery school will 
teach students by actual practice in this type of experimental laboratory to ad- 
minister physical and mental care to these little citizens of the future. 

In the nursery, students will learn to formulate and prepare proper child 
diets, learn how to teach helpful play, become acquainted with the various kinds 
of ideas suggested by children, and learn how to encourage or discourage these 
ideas as the case may be. In short, students will learn how to train children 
scientifically in body and mind. 

The knowledge of training children acquired in a nursery school serves to 
strengthen the bonds of marriage, and creates happier American Homes. 

In order that the Nursery School succeeds in its work, the cooperation of in- 
terested students is needed. Volunteered time and the willingness to work are 
invaluable assets. The student who aids the formation of a nursery school ex- 
tends Armstrong's expansion program simultaneously. 



The sky is deep and dark, and the stars look like 

diamonds sprinkled upon black velvet. 
Each in beauty's own formation, so many light 

years away, comes very close to me tonight. 
Suddenly a shooting star streaks accross the sky to 

fall into a bottomless cavern of the night. 
Yet another takes its place to shimmer even more 

Leaving me to gasp in wonder; to sigh in delight. 
I am compelled to compare my thoughts of you as 

shooting stars upon the canvas of my brain. 
One of a million memories, gone, another just as 

sweet takes its place. 
And so there must be some part of Godliness in 

you; for God controls his heavens. 
And the stars in my heavens are thoughts of you. 


by Mary Conway 


The days are long and dreary now; 

My world is dark and sad. 

A cloud of sorrow covers me; 

No more is my heart glad. 

I've lost the dearest friend I have 
She cannot be replaced. 
She cannot be forgotten, or 
Her memory be erased. 

I still remember howwe played 
When school and work were o'er. 
We'd romp the fields or run 
Some errand to a neighboring store 

Where e'er I'd go, I'd take her, too; 
Together we would play, 
And sweet companionship was ours 
Through every passing day. 

But now she's gone forever gone, 

Th ere's no more to be said. 

My world is cold and dreary now 

My little dog is dead. 




Leave off your books and take your ease; 

Be merry and have fun, 

And you will much the wiser be 

When all is said and done. 

For books are dull and boring, too; 
As dry as dry can be. 
And knowledge comes from what we do 
And from the things we see. 

Ah, Youth's a time to have some fun 
And pleasure by the score. 
Why waste your time in reading books 
and studying galore ? 

For pleasure calls in voices loud, 
"Give up your books for me. 
As you grow old, you'll realize 
How wise you've come to be. 

Why go to school and slave away ? 
Why labor all in vain? 
Say, don't you know that books and Pi 
Will drive you quite insame ? 

Yes, pleasure may suffice at times, 
It has its good points — true. 
And yet you'll find that in the end 
It brings regrets to you. 

For pleasure is no lasting thing; 
It comes and then it goes. 
And those who walk in pleasure's pat 
Will meet unending woes. 

The student who endures it all 
Can find if he but looks, 
A store of profit, fun, and joy 
Is gained from studying books. 




Words can't express the beauty 
Of a sunset in the west. 
When skies in all their splendor 
Seem to fill my soul with rest. 

It seems the very face of God 

That glows not far away. 

Each time He smiles his matchless love, 

Seems measured by a ray. 

And nature glows with radiance | 
For all the world to see. 
With flaming tongues of color 
That bring happiness to me. 

Artistic hands could paint the set 
Musicians, on their way. 
Could sing Of sweet tranquility 
Brought by departing day. 

But I, a humble writer, 
Whose words come slow and few 
Can only in this simple way 
Reveal the scene to you. 


by Eleanor Rich 

Considering him from a purely fictional viewpoint, my father, D. J., is truly 
a most interesting character. Those of you who have met him, (which, 1 trust, 
none of you have), will heartily agree. For the ones who are yet to make his ac- 
quaintance, a biographical sketch might prove benificial, for men of his caliber 
are few and far between let us hope 

D. J. was bortk (1 suppose) in Russia. The known facts of his early childhood 
are rather obscure, but it may be assumed that he eventually reached manhood, 
the usual procedure. 

At about the noble age of twenty three, he took an active interest in politics, 
and sought to convert the accepted theories of communism to capitalism (isn't 
freedom of the press wonderful?). Since the Soviet 'Heads' and D. J. differed on I 
several points (such as 'is the dollar earned really your own?'), it was finally 
decided on the behalf of the Soviet Government that he should retire to that won- 
drous Utopia, Siberia, with all expenses paid. 

Even the most luxurious of saW mines can become a bore after five years, an* 
so, establishing the most intimate of relationships with the Morton Brothers (you 
Know, '-when it rains it pours'), he slipped out ever so quietly on an American- 
bound cargo of salt, not wishing to offend the Soviets after their extreme kindness 
and consideration. Three weeks later, he caught his first glimpse of the 'lady of 
glory* in New York Harbor. 

Once on American soil, he set himself up in a promising business. In fact, h<] 
was soon known as 'The Toothpick King'. In that golden age, the toothpick played 
a most important role, and in no time flat, the 'Sliverless Toothpick Company", 
had become a most promising enterprise. But time and fate worked against my 
dear kinsman, and soon he was forced to realize that the opinions of Emily Post 
(who held that the toothpick was socially taboo) and the dentists (who argued that 
that most illustrious device proved to be injurous to the teeth) weighed more hea\ 
ily In the eyes of Mr. John Q. Public than his own. 

Oh yes. Every biography has to have a love-interest, doesn't it? The little 
Irish immigrant, Mary E. Pollard (sounds English, but convention demands that 
she be a colleen) whom my father was destined to meet was typical of her native 
people. Tiny stature, dark hair, rosy cheeks, and of course, the brogue, (all the 
usual characteristics included?) proved to be too much for D. J., and infatuation 
gave way to the 'real thing', and soon the fatal step was taken. 

i About two years later, which would bring us up to about midway of the fateful 
'year of '29, D. J. and Mary E. suffered their first severe shock of married life 
— me- But let's leave idiosyncrasies (it's legal, I looked it up) out of this. 

Wasn't it sometime in the early thirties that the stock markets crashed? We 
will assume that it was anyway. Ah yes, those tender years were spent begging 
peanuts along with the pigeons and squirrels in Central Park (and to think that I 
have been accused of having an acute imagination--) 

At length, the time came when money was used on basis of material weight 
rather than on the face value. 'Ah-ha, this must be inflation,' concluded my most 
enlightened forebear, and immediately set about seeking a remedy. 

Noticed the drop in the price of eggs recently? Needless to say my father is 
responsible. Taking into consideration the overworked condition of the biddies, 
and also the rocketing prices of foodstuffs, a plan was devised, which, quite simp- 
ly, is this: the bits of broken egg shells are collected after the edible portion has 
been removed, and are glued together so as to retain their original shape, an in- 
visible zipper is installed, and then they are sold back to the chickens. Now, 
everytime she wants to encase her egg, the biddy has only to place it in the ready 
made shell, and zip it up, thus saving time and materials as well as speeding up 
production. Bet that one isn't in your Economics book, Mr. Trexler 

But once a politician, always a politician, and D. J. is again actively engaged in 
in politics. Although he appreciates the fact that he is indebted to Russia for the 
most eventful years of his life, he continues to be anti-communistic. Two of the 
most recent bills he has introduced in the 'House' are 'Don't you think that the 
cancer feather could be a little less suggestive in color?' and 'What in the world 
,are we going to do about the Cincinnati REDS?* 


SPRING NOON by Haskell Heller 

A soft drowsy air of timorous birds, 

of floating sun, of muffled words, 

of warm amorous scent, of rustling leaves, 

of double cooing under the eaves. 

The tree's apparel, it's stillness cup, 
the shiny magnolia, a white face up, 
the blue, the bag, then blaring horn, 
and all awakes — the stillness gone. 

****** *********** 

It is impossible to make a heel toe the mark. 


Two ants were running along a cracker box when one of them said: "Why are we 

running so fast?" 

The other one answered: "We have to; it says right here, 'Tear along the dotted 



Rowing back to shore after putting my friend aboard the ketch Southern Cross 
on Papeete, Tahiti, I watched her make sail, weigh anchor, and stand out to the 
pass. She was sailing on a light land breeze in the grey dawn of a March 28th, 
bound around Cape Horn for Montevideo. 

As I watched her make out to sea under all her sail, I couldn't help thinking of 
what misery and hardship lay ahead for those on board. A winter rounding the 
Horn is cold, wet, rough, and dangerous passage; few ships go this way now, and 
very seldom do yachts undertake it. All aboard the Southern Cross knew what lay 
ahead, but naturally were oblivious to the tragic outcome of the voyage. 

Not until years later did I learn the story of the passage. I ran across my 
friend in an east coast port and got from him the full story and particulars of the 
ill-fated passage. This is what he told me: 

"After clearing Papeete, we sailed south in the easterly trades with the inten- 
tion of picking up the strong westerlies that blow between 40 and 60 degrees south 
latitude, and the 'Roaring Forties' as they are called. 

There were five of us aboard the 50 foot ketch-rigged yacht. The owner, his 
wife, and two others had sailed from Jacksonville, Florida two years before, bound 
around the world. The winter passage around the Horn had been planned to fill a 
long standing ambition of the owner and he had signed me on as a paid hand for the 
rough passage. The owner was a capable skipper, and liked rough passage. After 
the first week aboard, 1 sensed that possibly he may have driven his crew a little 
also. However my conning aboard eased the work ot a^l hands, and the slight un- 
dercurrent of resentment I had noticed soon disappeared. 

The sail so far was delightful. There was not a day that the sun did not shine. 
At night, a waxing moon threw a silvery path from the horizon to our little ketch 
as she plowed along in the steady trades, with all sail set and drawing. Porpois- 
es played in our wake that stretched far astern, and the cat, Stormalong, spent 
her time catching flying fish in the lee cuppers. 

The trades held longer than they should have, but finally, on the seventh day 
out, they left us, and abruptly the weather turned cooler. We still had fair winds 
though, and made good 'southing' for three days more. Then at about 43 degrees 
south latitude, it fell calm. It was a sullen calm that seemed to drag into etern- 
ity. After five days of it, our nerves were taunt as fiddle strings and the skipper 
paced the decks. Finally on the sixth day a wind came, but it was from the south- 
southeast, cold, damp, and strong. It was maddening. After six days of dead calm 
to have adverse winds. We were in the region of the westerlies, but they refused 
to blow. The skipper was irritated. However, the southeasterly wind lasted only 
a day, then veered south and into the west, holding its strength. Westerlies at last. 

We squared away to run for Cape Horn setting sail and raffee in place of the 
mainsail. This was all the sail the little ketch could carry, and she roared across 
the rising seas. Rolling and pitching, spume and spray flying, she was straining 
every timber in her stout hull. I was not wrong in sizing up the skipper as a driv- 
er. He was now pressing on every inch of canvas to make the best of the wester- 
lies. He didn't shorten down until the next day. The wind had become stronger, 
and she was steering hard, so we took in the mizzen and jib and ran on under the 
square sail and raffee. The skipper had fitted her with these sails especially for 
this passage, and now he intended to use them to the utmost. 

How she rant Roaring down the forward sides and across the breaking crests 
of the long seas in a smother of foam and flying spray, she seamed to fly. Green 
water rushed across her decks and streamed from her washports. Now the over- 
cast had closed down low, and flying scud raced by overhead. We knew a gale was 
coming down, but we ran all day. The little ketch labored under her press of sail 
and in running down one wave was now burying her bow in the next one ahead, 
sending green water roaring across the decks, tearing at the hatch coamings, tak- 
ing every thing moveable with it. 

The skipper wanted to run on despite our arguments for bearing to until the 
gale subsided. The skipper won, and we ran on. We had to shorten down though 
and we did so by taking in the raffee and one bonnet from the squaresail. 

Before I could get the raffee clewed up, I expected to see It carried way any 
minute. Under a press of canvas, it was whipping and bowing like a young sap- 
pling in a high wind. Aloft, furling the raffee, 1 worked with my heart in my 
mouth. The little ketch's motion was accentuated tenfold at the maintop, and the 
wind screamed in my ears, tearing at the sruggorn canvass with which I wrest- 
led until my hands were cut and bleeding. But there was no going below to attend 
to them. 

It had been raining all day, and now snow and sleet had started in flurries. The 
windblown rain had found its way through my oilskins, and I was wet and cold, almo* 
unbearably cold. 1 fought the sleet-covered lines and canvas for an hour before I I 
finally had her shortened down. Then, chilled to the bone, I went below to the com- 
paritive warmth and dryness of the cabin. Here I had only time enough to get fairly 
warm and dry before going back on deck to take a trick at the wheel. 

Back on deck, again I saw day was blending into night. Huge greybeards were 
marching past in steady procecsion, hissing and smoking like malevolent demons 
bent on our destruction. The wind was screaming through the rigging, and snow, 
sleet, rain, and spume leaden sky blended with equally leaden sea. Overhead, flying 
scud raced by Close to our wildly swinging topmasts. We seemed to be racing on in I 
a world of our own. A roaring tumultous world far removed from anything we had 
ever experienced. 

During my trick, my gloved hands had been frozen to the wheel more than once, ' 
and when I was relieved, I was worn out, cold, and wet through. It seems that when 'J 
rounding the Horn it is best to get wet and to stay wet. 

With the coming of morning, the wind abated some, and we were able to give her !| 
another bonnet on the squaresail. The skipper had been right about not bearing to. I 
From not long after night fall until morning, the wind did not increase further, and \ 
we weathered the night without mishap. 

We were now running in 'between gale' weather, the weather in these latitudes 
meaely being one gale fallowed by another. However, the strong westerlies still 
held as always, and we were only able to set one raffee for short periods. We 
were logging ZOO mile days--good for such a little ship. She was in her glory now 
rolling and pitching toward the Horn, there before the wild westerlies as if to say, 
'who else like I can boast of this?' She would have been right. Few other boats 
her size have ever made this passage. Her cockiness seemed to drop though, 
when the skipper came on deck early in the night of the 22nd. day out announcing a 
falling glass. 

This foretold another gale, our second, which had been anticipated ever since 
our last one, days ago. We were running down our 'eastling' fast now, and were 
nearing the Horn. Perhaps this one would see us around and into the calmer At- 

We took in the raffee that night and next day Stormalong, who had been airing 
herself in the cockpit scurried below as the wind increased and flurries of rain 

During the day, the wind increased and by three in the afternoon, the gale was onl 
us in its full fury, even stronger than the one before. We took one bonnet from the 
squaresail, but she still had too much sail, and was steering hard. With two men 
at her wheel now the little ketch drove on. The foam streaked greybeards now roar- 
ed past seeming to shoulder one another aside to get at us. Breaking directly be- 
neath us, they soon sent tons of green water crashing across our decks, carrying 
away everything not fastened down. As the little ketch rose from one of these on- 
■ laughters, freeing the water from her decks, we saw th*t the dingy, which had been 
lashed down atop the maincabin, had been swept overboard. This was the last thing 
moveable on deck, except us. 

Again we tried to persuade the skipper into bearing to for the night. But again 
he maintained that the wind would hold steady for the night, and that one more bon- 
net from the squaresail would ease her sufficiently to run on. Perhaps he could be 
right again. Anyway, we might have lor.t the ship trying to bear to then as the seas 
had Increased alarmingly. To come around into that murdrous trough now seemed 
almost certain destruction. 

: U R Y 

How the wind did blow Solid water swept across our decks constantly now, 

and the spray and rain cut like so many knives. Night closed down about four o' 
clook, and I took another bonnet from the squaresail with great difficulty, some- 
times working hip deep in water, water fought to tear loose my every grip. I had 
passed a line around my waist, and once, when a wave tore loose my hold, I would 
have been swept overboard had I not done so. 

She ran easier with the reduced sail, but we still had to keep two at the wheel. 
[The skipper was on deck in his glory, taking in every motion of his little ketch as 
'she fought the gale, a true "Cape Horn Snorter". White breaking crests swept 
past in the gloom like wraithes, their individual roaring and crashing not distingu- 
ishable now above the blending, terrible, roar of the wind and breaking seas. 

With the coming of night, snow and rain had again started, and as the night wore 
on, the wind rose. Gusts came down that seemed as though they would lift the little 
ketch bodily from the water. The skipper no longer was reveling in the ship's per- 
formance, but now stood tight-lipppd by the wheel watching her like a hawk. I felt 
that he had silent regrets toward his decision to run the night through. 

Below, everything was a wreck. Water had found its way into the cabin, and 
everything was drenched. Locker doors had burst open, sending their contents 
accross the cabin with murdrous potentiality. The galley stove had long since gone 
out. The watch below found it safer on deck and turned out- to huddle, tight-lipped 
and anxious, in the cock-pit. 

It soon became evident that the mainmast would carry away under its press of 
canvas. Being unable to shorten it down further, there remained only one thing to 
do, rig a preventer. 

After making one end of the preventer and tackle fast to the deck, and the other 
end fast around my waist, I inched my way forward and lay aloft around nine o'clock. 
Laying into the sleet-covered rigging was not easy, but I finally reached the widly 
swinging maintop, where it took nearly every ounce of my strength to hold on. Get- 
ting myself situated to work, I was about to take the end of the preventer from around 
my waist when a squall came down that seemed even to frighten the sea. Looking 
astern, I could barely see the white crest of a huge sea that was roaring down on us 
from out of the darkness. The four others huddled in the cockpit, could not see it, 
and could not hear my shouts of warning. Before I could do anything else, it was on 
us, slewing our stern higher, burying our bows. The last thing I remember seeing 
from my place in the maintop was our stern poised almost directly above our bows 
with the barely discernable four occupants of the cockpit clinging on madly in a 
smother of white water. Then I and the maintop were plunged in<to the water. Down 
I went into the stygian blackness. I was finally torn from my death grip on the main- 
top, and floundered in the darkness, not knowing whether I was going up or down. 
"When I thought my lungs would burst, I was fetched up on the preventer stay, still 
fastened to my waist, and was dragged to the surface. I thanked my lucky stars that 
I had not taken that stay from around my waist before the squall came down. 

In the darkness, I could barely make out the 'Southern Cross' downwind from me, 
rolling wildly. I pulled myself back aboard with the preventer, and exhausted, drop- 
ped into the half filled cockpit, and waited. I, at first, expected the others to come 
back aboard, but as the minutes dragged by , I began to doubt. I strained my eyes 
into the darkness till they ached. I was helpless to do anything else. At times, I 
thought I saw a head bobbing at the top of a crest, but it would turn out to be only 
my imagination. Five minutes must have passed with no sign of the others. Then 
from the windward, I heard a faint cry. It stabbed through my brain like a knife, 
sometimes I think staying there ever since, coming back to haunt me. I called back 
again and again, but it was useless. The wind swept the words from my mouffr.. 

That single cry was the last I heard from my shipmates. After fifteen minutes 
of waiting, I knew they were gone. I was left alone with the little ketch in the midst 
of a roaring gale somewhere near Cape Horn. 

Coming back to myself, I found that the squall had passed, but the gale still blew 
with full force. Occasionally, a breaking sea would sweep the entire ship as she lay 
there rolling wildly in the trough. I had to get her hove to before she did herself 
damage. A survey about the decks showed that all masts were still standing, but 


the squaresail and yardarm had been carried away. Some running rigging had also' 
been carried away and the main gaff and boom were broken. The rest of the rigging! 
was intact. 

Numb with cold, I set a storm trysail on the mizzen, and a storm jib on the mail 
stay. As I worked, waves swept across the decks almost constantly, and 1 was near! 
swept overboard more than once. After three hours of back-breaking work, 1 finalll 
got her snugged down and hove to, sholder to the sea. Slashing the wheel hard overlP 
I stumbled below, cut and bleeding, aching all over, into a cabin knee deep in water. « 
I fell over into a sodden bunk, and slept the sleep of the dead. 

I was awakened some eight hours later by an animal noise. At first 1 was puz- 
zled. It could not be my lost shipmates. The mystery was short lived though. Sit- 
ting in the next bunk was Stormalong, I was not alone after all.. 

On deck I found the gale had blown itself out, but the westerlies still held strong 
I set about getting the ship in order and on course again. After pumping her out, 
and getting her calm in fair order, I rove off new running rigging to replace that 
which had been carried away by the storm. 

Shaping a rough course, 1 set the mizzen and both the zibs and squared away to 
run past the horn. According to our last position, I should have run past the Cape 
the next day. Sure enough, the next day, I identified the Diego Ramirey Islands, 
and later swept past the Horn itself. I got a fix from the last of the islands off 
Tierra del Fuego, and shaped a course for Montevideo passing inside the Falkland 

In the Atlantic, the wind moderated and veered to the northwest, making it pos- 
sible for me to lash the sheel, get some sleep, and set about further repairing the 
damage done. 

By the third day after rounding the Horn, I had all fore and aft sails set and 
the cabin in fair order. On the fifth day past the Horn, the sun came out, allowing 
me to take a few sights and to finish the job of drying out below. 

The fix I worked out put me seven hundred miles out of Montevideo. With any 
luck, I would be in, in five days. The wind still allowed me to lash the wheel, let- 
ing me get my meals and sleep. I only hoped it would hold into port. It did, and 
the last five days were spent getting the small, almost forgotten auxilliary in run- 
ning order. Stormalong spent her time catching flying fish in the scuppers as she 
had done on the run south from Tahiti. 

I docked in Montevideo on April 4th, thirty-six days out of Papeete. I first 
communicated with my shipmate's first of kin as quickly as possible, and then 
gave the story to the news. 

The owners first of kin offered me the job of bringing the "Southern Cross* 
back to Jacksonville. I accepted, and signed a crew for the trip. It turned out to 
be a delightful cruise, taking in the West Indies thoroughly on the way up. 

I grew to like the Southern Cross so much that I offered to buy her. My offer 
was accepted. I sailed her down here a year ago and have been living aboard ever 
since. " 

As my friend concluded his story, Stormalong swung down the companionway. 
"I got her along with the ship," my friend told me, "You can't find many Cape 
Horn cats these days." 

THE COLD by Haskell Heller 

I awoke this morning, my throat was dry, 
A pinch of gravel I felt in each eye, 
I started to speak, and lo and behold, 
My no'ed is co'gged, I gob a co'ed. 


The capital has been DUBLIN for years, which makes Ireland the richest 
country in the world. 



by Henry Coffer 

"Why is it, I got the blame 
For tempting Adam into shame ? 
And why is it that I am cursed 
Just because my fall came first? 

"You see, a chance, I've neveT had 
To tell the story of a cad 
Who entered me with bold deceit, 
So I'd get blamed for man's defeat. 

"He made me go to Adam's wife 
And tempt her with the tree of life. 
I couldn't warn her from my soul 
Because that demon had control. 

"Up to the tree -she quickly went 
And down to earth, a branch she bent. 
She ate the apple to the core 
And then sent Adam for some more. 

"One day, when earth had just begun, 
I was basking in the sun; 
When up to me a demon came 
And 'Satan' was his name. 

"Well, God came down there pretty soon, 
To eat his lunch with man at noon, 
And said,' Now Adam, where art thou? 
What have you been up to now?' 

"Oh, he looked fine and ritsy too; 
And flaming wings on each side grew. 
Thirteen demons followed him 
J All clothed in scarlet robes of sin. 

"I was frightened — stiff and scared. 
As with an evil eye he glared. 
And thirteen other pairs of eyes 
Watched him to his height arise. 

| "Smiling then, he soothed my fright 
' And shrank and shrank down to my height 
; Then sweetly spoke into my ear; 
Open your heart wide, my dear. 

"I did so and he jumped right in 
And filled my soul with deadly sin. 
He said,' Now snake, I'll show you how 
I'm going to ruin you here and now.' 

"Adam knew then he was caught, 
That for his sin he now was sought; 
But he laid all the blame on me, 
Which made old Satan dance with glee. 

"Then quickly Satan flew away, 
And as he flew I heard him say, 
'From now on, you'll only hiss 
Because I got you into this.' 

"When questioned, I could not reply. 
I could not even voice a sigh; 
But when I heard the penalty, 
Oh, how I wished that I could flee. 

"Now, on my belly I must crawl. 
I cannot speak to man at all. 
I'll never have man as a friend 
'Cause he still thinks I caused his end. 

"This is what I want to say 
To everyone alive today: 
Satan's advice is never sound; 
And it is always roamin' 'round." 


After a gambler has lost his shirt, he cannot expect to eat on the cuff. 

A R M S T R 




by ■ i 1 1 1 a ■ Baker 

With bated breath the autumn land 

Awaits the coming of the snow: 

Bedecked in gold, the aspens stand 

A-shiver in the fading crimson glow 

Of day's last fire, of day's last lonely fire 

The fireweed stands in the tongues of flame 

Beside the crystal fcrest pool, 

Its blossoms, burning bright, proclaim 

The summer's end mid the cool 

Of day's last fire, of day's last dying fire.. 

Across the west a wedge of geese 

Sail swiftly toward an unseen goal; 

Beyond the hills the winds release 

The iridescent, wav'ring scroll 

Of winter's fire, of winter's ghostly fire 

And now as aspens shed their gold, 

And embers of fireweed fall, 

A million drifting stars enfold 

The autumn land in winter's pall: 

For night has come, the winter's night has come 

The poem above won first place at the monthly meeting of 
the Georgia Poetry Society, making it eligible for the annual 

Popular Prize Award. 

Our sincerest congratulations, Mr. 


The old timers who say the present generation is on the road to hell no doubt 
know what they are talking about — they probably recognize the road. 


An optomist is a man who thinks the woman he is about to marry is better than 
the one he just divorced. 


"When it rains," Henry Holloway groaned, "It pours. It absolutely pours." 

"What?" asked Cathy. 

"Nothing," Henry said. "How about another coke ?" He glanced at his watch. 
6:20 In ten minutes the Steamboat Jeb Stuart would slide back into dock, and the 
excursion would be over. There was a lush expectancy in Cathy's eyes and Henry 
knew she was waiting for him to ask her out for the evening. The afternoon had 
been wonderful as only nice things can be when they happen unanticipated. 

Ordinarily, to Henry Holloway, Sunday was a Jonah day, the worst day of the 
week. He had moved to Beecherton six months ago, and had never succeeded in 
making friends. As in most small towns, negating the classic myth of provincial 
hospitality, people moved in tight, impentrable cliques. Once or twice one of the 
guys at the office of the Smith Construction Company, where he worked as an ac- 
countant, had dated him blind with a visiting cousin or in-law. But the blind dates 
had turned out to be just that. So Sunday was just an extension of Saturday night, 
the loneliest night in the week and Henry hated it. 

But today had been different. Usually he slept late Sunday mornings, but this 
one was too hot for that. By 7:30, the summer sun was pouring into the windows 
of his apartment with flame -like intensity. Instead of making his own breakfast, 
he shaved, showered, and went out to the Busy Bee Cafe a few blocks away. 

The air-conditioned temperature was like a dash of ice water, and he bright- 
ened up at once. He sat in a booth and waited patiently for the waitress, enjoying 
the sensation of. the cold air sopping up the perspiration that drenched his long body. 

The waitress, he noticed as she took his order, was the prettiest girl he'd seen 
in a long time. Or maybe she just looked nice because he was so hard up. Damn 
you, Henry Holloway, he admonished himself, quit philosophizing. She is pretty. 
Look at those eyes, green like a cat's, those slim hips beneath the starched, snowy 
uniform when she walks. That's plenty nice .Holloway. 

After tomato juice, eggs and bacon, he dawdled over his coffee. The waitress 
came over and began to clear the dishes. "Anything else sir?" she inquired. 

"Yes," Henry said, watching her over the heavy rim of the coffee cup. She took 
out her pad and poised her pencil over it. Henry stared at the fascinating brooch 
that clasped the ends of her collar together, a tiny piece of brown wood with the 
name "Mary" twisted in chrome accross its length. 

"Yes, sir?" she said. Her tone, without losing its commercial politeness was 
tinged with just enough impatience to let him know he wasn't the only customer in 
the place. 

"Mary", Henry said finally, "I was just wondering what you did with your Sunday 

"I stay home and wash my husband's socks." 

Henry pointed to her third finger, left hand. "Wedding ring in hock or don't you 
bother to wear it?" 

*That," said Mary with frigid directness, "is none of your business. Now will 
you give me your order ? We're rather busy." 

"All right, another cup of coffee." To himself he said, "Be persistent, Holloway 
or it's another lonely Sundayfor you." When she returned with the coffee, he tried 
a new tactic. "Look, Mary," he appealed, coating his voice with sincerity, "I didn't 
mean to be fresh. It's just that it's Sunday, and I'm lonely, and if you're not doing 
anything you could spend it with me, and make me a very happy guy. 

She started to walk away then turned around, her kissable lips curving into a 
reluctant smile. "All right, uh " 

"Henry Henry Holloway." 

"All right, Henry." 

He grinned and mashed his cigarette into the ash tray. "Thanks Mary. When and 

She scribbled her name and address on an order blank. 


"I'll be seeing you at eight o'clock", he said. 

He went back to his apartment, his heart feathery with joy, his feet treading 
clouds. Mary was going to be a nice date. And this wasn't going to be another one | 
of those Sundays. 

He stripped to his shorts, mixed a tall highball with lots of tee cubes, switched 
on the radio, and relaxed in the big chair. A pleasant waltz, cooling as an autumn 
breeze, poured gently into his ears. He sipped slowly at the highball, savoring it. 



Henry clicked off the radio. He could be back in plenty of time for that date 
with Mary. Sure. Why not? 

"It's a lie", Henry said to the person next to him. " 'Sit back in your deck 
chair'. What deck chair ?" 

His neighbor laughed. He noted it was a she and her laughter sounded like the 
song of a nightingale or the flutes in something Debussy. "You heard the same 
commercial?" sb.e said. 

"Uh huh. Some pride of Beecherton." He turned to look at her, a small dark girl 
in a lovely simple white frock, with large brown eyes that held a thousand mysteries 

Henry wanted very much to probe those mysteries. She was the prettiest hey wait 

a minute, they can't all be. "But it is cool," he said. "Feel that breeze." 


Funny thing, Henry did feel relaxed, even on the long hard wooden bench. The 
three piece orchestra was playing ioft, and low, and sweet. They played Stardust, 
and he saw the reflection of stars in her eyes (chiding himself that it was bright 
daylight, and that he was being silly.) Linda and he was walking with his arms 
around her, (Holloway, you're sitting perfectly still, you dope, on an old steamboat 
on a hard bench). Tea for Two, and they were sitting in an Italian restaurant, mak- 
ing plans while they drank "chianti", and played hopscotch with their fingers on the 
red squares of the tablecloth. 

An hour and a half later and the Jeb Stuart had turned around, headed for home. 
They had gone in and danced, and she* was soft and luscious in his arms, and her 
hair smelled like wild lilacs after a rain. "My name's Henry,* he said, reeling 
with the delight her roundness inspired in him. "Mine's Cathy," she said. "Cathy", 
be murmered in her ear, "Cathy, Cathy". 

They they were out on deck again. Watching the way the wind blew her hair 
back from her smooth temples, his hand closed over hers. 

Sunday was a beautiful day 

A sudden thought impinged on his dream, broke through it like a quick shaft of 
lightening. Mary. He had a date tonight. But Cathy, what about Cathy ? 

"When it rains," Henry groaned, "It pours. It absolutely pours." 

"What?" asked Cathy. 

"Nothing," Henry said. "How about another coke?" 

The minutes passed, the Jeb Stuart glided smoothly into its bed, Cathy was walk- 
ing down the gangplank with him. 
"It's been swell, Cathy." 

"Thank you Henry. I've enjoyed it, too." She was still waiting. If he asked her I 
make it some other time, she would like him even less. So he merely said: "Goodbl 

She turned and walked away without replying. 

Well, anyway, Henry consoled himself, there's Mary. He walked to Mary's 
address from the waterfront suddenly very eager to see her. She was a nice girl. 
It would be a nice evening. 

Mary met him at the door, and he didn't like the queer look in her eyes. She just 
stood there in the doorway, and didn't ask him in. "Oh, Henry", she quavered, "I'm 
so sorry. This fellow--I've been going with him steady--he just came back to town. 
He asked me out tonight, and of course I couldn't turn him down, and after all he 
wouldn't understand, and I couldn't tell him that I dated someone else, and you do 
understand, don't you Henry?" 

The confused hodge-podge of apologies angered him. But he didn't say a word. 
He walked heavily down the stairs, and headed for the Pink Elephant, the nearest bar. 

The place was nearly empty. The bartender set up a whiskey and beer chaser. 
He knew Henry from numberless Sunday nights, knew he had come in with the delib- 
erate intention of getting pie-eyed, knew his customers' intentions were none of his 

"Awful quiet," he said to make conversation. "Sunday is always a quiet day." 
He wiped the bar around Henry's glass. 

Henry drowned his boilermaker. "Sunday," he hissed the word. "It's worse 
than quiet." He stared balefully at his glass. "Sunday is Jonah day, brother." 

He tapped the glass with his finger, and the bartender poured again. 


You have become jaded with wars, O Rome, 

which once you feared and hated 

and smoothfaced boys meet women in bars 

drowning loneliness 

The state of the union is the report of trireme 
seventy groups in all, and report of more to come 
report of clever fools and damnably stupid minions 
that have forgot meanings and downward courses 
of time and fate of nations.... 

Nowhere is a kind old man, patient, sweet; 

One to sit down and tell us Lincoln thoughts: 

"O People where go we now? When shall journeys end? 

"How far stretches our desert of lost hopes ? 

Talk, talk, people, give stories of men in the 

high councils, mistrust, cynicism, brutal talk 

and place all your trust in legions and death 

shall come into your councils and sit awhile, O Rome... 

Place all your confidence in idiot war. 

And leave to women the solemn thought: 

Where can we go who know not swords and strength. 

Where can we escape ? 

And let fathers crush off thoughts, looking down 

at tender boys in innocent sleep: 

boys to grow and become report of soldiers 

and life in bars and loneliness on alien shore 

while church and school and senate sleep 

on the state of the nation 





by Mark Steadman 

"Then you've never worked in a grocery store before?" Mr. Jute's eyes 
shifted nervously. 

"Yep." I replied. 

"Yep?" His eyes stopped prancing and came to rest on mine. 

"I mean no." 


"I mean that I have never before worken in a grocery store ,* I explained. 

Thus began our rather trying acquaintance. 

My employer was a deacon in the First Presbyterian Church, a member of 
the Rotary Club, and manager of the largest grocery store in town. In short, he 
was a typical suburban business man. People like Mr. Jutes just naturally fall 
into the "Long Gone" or "Solid Citizen" category. That is, persons who have 
scraped over the shoals in the perilous passage of youth, and who have settled 
down in the snug harbor of middle age to enjoy the rather sheltered activities 
of the seed catalogue and trowel set He was not the type of man who stands out 
in a crowd. He was not, in fact, the type of man whom you would be apt to find 
in a crowd in the first place. His whold living plan was geared to two motivat- 
ing forces; an unbounded zeal to do exactly as he was told, and a driving desire 
for everything to function according to some prearranged plan. To be brutally 
frank about the matter, the only thing unique about his personality was his 
utter lack of it. 

My term of employment began on September 5, 1944, and ended March 7, 
1945, --a comparatively short period of time, but one that is not likely to be 
forgotten very quickly by either Mr. Jutes or Myself. Had we been preinformed 
of the events which were to follow, I am sure that my lusty career as a sack boy 
would have terminated, by mutual agreement, with the first interview. Since 
neither of us was able to for see what the future had in store, I was duly sworn 
in and told to report for work at seven o'clock on the following Saturday morn. 

I made my debut in a blaze of glory by arriving at work thirty minutes late 
on the first morning. I had prepared a very good excuse, but Mr. Jutes would 
have none of it. T his lack of confidence on his part created a coolness be- 
tween us, and I decided to have as few dealings with him as possible. 

My. duties as a sack boy consisted of standing in a booth with a checker or 
adding machine operator, and placing the purchases of the customers in paper 
sacks. This process greadly facilitated the work of the package boys, whose job 
it was to carry the bundles from the store to the cars. 

It will be noted that my position, though a responsible one, did not require an 
overbalance of mental ability. Since I lacked sufficiently interesting material 
to occupy all of my attentions, I would often lapse into a trance -like state for 
hours on end. It was during one of these periods of preoccupation that I placed a 
twenty-five pound sack of flour on top of a customer's garden-fresh tomatoes. 
He danced madly about the booth, abusing me shamelessly until Mr. Jutes arriv- 
ed on the scene. He approached the irate gentleman as if he wanted to beg a dime 
for a cup of coffee. As the first hot blast of beratement struck him between the 
eyes, he stiffened. As it intensified, he began to tremble. This was evidentlly a 
new experience to h'm, and it had taken him without even a few moments to brace 
himself against the impact of the first shock. He finally succeeded in placating 
the patron, but he had to go to bed for two days to recover from the ordeal. 

Mr. Jutes had been too stunned to admonish me when the thing happened, and 
it was a dead issue by the following week - so nothing was ever said to me about 
it. I observed that he took careful note of my actions for the next few weeks, 

I caught on quickly, and it was not long before I had gotten into the swing of 
things pretty well. Such mistakes as I have related above were either forgotten 
completely, or faded into the dim recesses of the past. 

During the entire period of my employment, I cannot recall more than two or 
three instances when I addressed Mr. Jutes as Mr. Jutes. I preferred the simple 
directness of the surname minus the superflous addition of the title. This fact 
seemed to cause him a great deal of concern. He never approached me on the sub- 
ject, butl could tell by the way he winced whenever I accosted him that a great 
many of our disagreements could have been avoided had I given in on this one 
point. It was against my principals, however, and I had rather be a martyr to my 
principals than to gain materially as a result of deserting them. 

It was a store policy for everyone to stay around for about half an hour after 
closing time and help put the place in order for Monday morning. I was dusting 
canned goods and reflecting on the events of the day, when Charlie Deacon came 
up and accused me of loafing. His "Come, come, little boy. Let's put more juice 
into it. That feather duster won't break the cans", placed me in a state of high 
indignation, but I decided that the diplomatic pathway would be the best, and ac- 
cordingly concentrated more energy on the task before me. 

Between the third and fourth counters was a pyramid of canned pineapple that 
Charlie had been all day in constructing. I attacked it with unabated fury, the ef- 
fects of the remark had not completely worn off, and, with the second or third 
swipe of my feather duster, succeeded in dislocating one of the lower cans. The 
pyramid came tumbling down with an ominous groan. Cans of pineapple went cas- 
cading down the aisle, the din subsiding only after they had fetched up on the meat 
counted in the back. 

Charlie was fctill sobbing softly to himself when I left that night. This episode 
constituted the first and only time that he ever made a comment on the calibre of 
my work. 

I was temporarily relieved of my duties as a sacker, and given the more or 
less responsible position of package boy. The duties in my new capacity consist- 
ed of carrying the packages of our patrons to their cars which were parked in the 
lot adjoining the bjilding. I did not take too kindly to this new situation, the pack- 
age boys being considered somewhat beneath the other employees, but was de- 
termined to make the best of it, and thus prove my versatility to Mr. Jutes. 

About three o'clock in the afternoon, a customer came through booth three 
with an unusually large order of groceries, including among other things, a fifty 
pound sack of flour. Two other boys and myself were elected to carry out the 
bundle, and it befell that I received the flour as my portion of the load. I took a 
firm grip on it and hefted it over my shoulder in the fashion of the millers that I 
had seen so oftern in Pyle's Illustrated Edition of the Tales of Robin Hood. This 
would have been all well enough had my plans gone forward from this point. They 
did not, however. As I shifted the weight on my shoulder, the lower seam let go 
and the contents of the bag deposited itself in a neat pile on the floor in back of 

A R II S T « 0*1 

me. The entire front of the store and surrounding territory was immediately en- 
gulfed in a white mist. 

I was in the stock room removing the last remnants of the snowy powder from 
my clothes when Mr. Jutes put in his appearance. He told me that he realized that 
such an experience mush have proved very harrowing to me, and suggested that I 
go home until such time as I should feel up to working again. He spoke with a 
great deal of difficulty, clenching and unclenching his fists the while. I looked at 
him for a minute, then took the hint and left. The next week I was back in the 
booth again. 

One day I decided to eat my lunch in more congenial surroundings. That is to 
say, in the drug store instead of the stock rjom. T he exact combination of foods 
that I imbibed escapes me, but I am certain a dill pickle figured very promi- 
nently in it somewhere. Even to this day, I have an aversion to that particular 
fruit. However, to return to the narrative, the effects of this daring lunch began 
to overtake me as I returned to work, and it wasn't long before I was complaining 
of being ill. My checker, after contemplating my rather woe-begone countenence, 
agreed that I did not look too well. He suggested that I tell Mr. Jutes that I was 
sick and ask him to let me go home. 

The thought of going home was very attractive to me, but the thought of seeing 
Mr. Jutes served to counteract this, so it was not until I was in mortal agony that 
I quit my post arid went back to the office. 

The office was isolated from the remainder of the building by an exceedingly 
narrow flight of steps. I ascended these and knocked on the door. Mr. Jutes ask- 
ed who I was and what I wanted. I answered both questions. He told me to go home, 
but something in the way that he said it convinced me that he didn't believe my story 
I repeated that I was very sick, not wanting him to think that I was shamming. Back 
came the reply in that same aggrevating tone of voice. I was debating whether or 

not it would be wise to pursue the argument when suddenly I experienced a violent 
heaving sensation in my abdomen. I clapped a hand to my mouth, turned to, flee, 
regurgitated on the office steps, and left before Mr. Jutes discovered what had 
taken place. 

I heard later that he had to remain in the office for the best part of the after- 
noon, while a couple of negro boys cleaned up the mess that I had made. This in- 
formation did my heart no end of good. I took it for granted that he would never 
again doubt rne when I told him that I was sick. I was right. 

A few weeks after this, I was called upon to deliver Mr. Jute's car to his wife. 
I couldn't figure out why he had chosen me. Maybe he just wanted to get me away 
from the story. I don't know. I pulled up in front of the house, parked the car, 
and went around to the back door. I knocked, but received no answer. I knocked 
again. Again, no answer. I tried a few more times, then decided that I had better 
go back and tell Mr. Jutes that no one had been at home. I walked down the drive 
to the street. 

I could only stare in dumb amazement. The car was gone! What had happened 
to it? Someone must have stolen it. I made these reflections en hasty route to 
the house next door. 

A middle aged lady answered my frantic knock. With a few mumbled words of 
explanation, I dashed into the house. 

I didn't see the bridge table until it was too late. Cards and screams filled 
the atmosphere. I hesitated long enough to toss off a few words of apology, then 
demanded the way to the phone. My hostess responded with a gaping mough and a 
pointing finger. I dashed over to it, picked up the receiver, and shouted for police. 

When the confusion on my end had subsided, and I had sketchily explained the 
situation to the Glenn Arden Bridge Circle, I focused my attentions on the bewild- 
ered desk sergant on the other end. 

"I want to report a stolen car,* I shouted. 

"O. K. , Mac, O. K. Jus' keep yer pants on." 

"License Number E-21134,* I read off the minature on the key ring. Key ring! 
How could the car have been stolen when I had the keys ? No time to think about 
that. There were ways. I heard the sergeant mumbling to himself as he made a 
notation of the incident. I awaited his reply in feverish anticipation. 

C U R Y 

"We'll do what we can, Mac* 

"Thank you," I replied coldly and hung up the phone. 

With profuse thanks to Mrs. Mullins, I backed out of the door. The excited 
clucking of the bridge circle faded as I made my way down the street with a great 
show of speed. I soon realized the futility of such wasteful expenditure of energy, 
however, and stopped at the corner. 

What should I do not? I shuddered at the thought of reporting the incident to 
Mr. Jutes. He would hear about it soon enough, and it would be just as well if he 
were informed by some other person than myself. I decided to go down to the po- 
lice station, and wait for things to develop. 

Mr. Jutes' car was parked outside when I arrived. I dasked in to find the ser- 
gant talking to a distinguished looking woman. I had no opportunity to reflect the 
matter, since Mr. Jutes arrived at this precise moment. I faded into the shadows 
at his approach. 

Mr. Jutes saw me, and a look of understanding passed accross his face. He 
turned to his wife and asked what had happened. She told him the story. How she 
had left a note on the front door while she went next door to get the number of a 
dress pattern that she was planning to buy. How she had seen the car, and had 
thought that I had walked back to the store. How she had been arrested. In short, 
the whole horrible story. 

Mr. Jutes then related his part of the story, with occasional gestures in my di- 
rection. When he finished, everyone looked at me. I expressed a desire to go home 
excused myself, and left. 

Mr. Jutes never again asked me to run an errand for him. 

Then there was the time when the loading door to the stockroom got locked. I 
J worked on Friday afternoon, and Mr. Jutes had given me the key to lock the door 
with. I forgot to return it, and he appearantly forgot too, until I showed up for 
work the next day. I couldn't recall just what I had done with it, and was unable to 
locate it when I was sent home for that purpose. I was still trying to recall where 
I had put the thing when the poultry truck arrived. The store always bought its 
poultry on the hoof, and had it cleaned and dressed on the premises by a staff of 
negroes who were employed for that purpose. 

a To attempt to break the door down was futile, since it was made of steel plate, 
and as solid as a blockhouse. My suggestion that we break the huge plate glass 
window above it, was met by icy stares from Mr. Jutes, and hoots of derision from 
stockroom boys. There was only one other thing that we could do, and we did it. 
About half of the staff was told to report to the rear of the parking lot where the 
truck was located. Each received his wire cage of screaming, scratching chickens. 
Then back to the front of the store, through the front entrance, past the throng of 
gaping customers, and finally into the seclusion of the stock room. 

These chickens were under a severe emotional strain, and I was given the de- 
grading job of removing the painfully visible record of out progress from the front 
to the back of the store. (To those of you who are not acquainted with chickens, I 
am not at liberty to explain the effect of a severe emotional strain upon their deli- 
cate nervous system. I can only suggest that you contact some authorised poultry 
dealer if you desire to secure this information.) 

I later found that I had used the key as a book mark in a novel that I was read- 
ing at the time. 

Mr. Jutes took it all with quiet resignation, but was despondent for weeks after- 

One of the high points in my stay was the time when I got locked in the bathroom. 
It is still a mystery to me, and all involved as jufct how the thing happened, but the 
fact remains that it did. 

I had made one of my daily ten or twelve trips to the rest room when, upon try- 
ing the door, it refused to respond to my efforts,! began to pound on it, and shout 
for help. Indeed, I grew quite panicky. 

"Who is it?" I heard Mr. Jutes inquire of one of the stock room boys who had 
answered my calls. 

"Steadman," was the drawling reply. 

A long boding silence ensued. * I see," Mr. Jutes sounded like a little boy who 
had gotten a rocking horse for Christmas when he wanted a pony . 


"Can you hear me?" Mr. Jutes yelled. 

"I am not,* I replied, "deaf.* 

"Try the door again." 

*I did*, I am afraid that I sounded a little discouraged. Frankly I had expected 
more—even from Mr. Jutes. 

*It won't open, eh?" 

"It will not. Look here Mr. Jutes. This is beginning to get serious. Til rot in 
here il you don't show a little initiative," I yelled. I imagine, though, that it was a 
pretty strong temptation merely to turn a deaf ear to my entreaties, and leave me 
there to die. Had the use of the rest room not been indispensable to the remainder 
of the employees, I think that I might still be there. 

"Hand me the fire ax." There was determination in Mr. Jute's voice. 

*Oh my God! * I said to myself, "He's gone crazy. Grab him boys!" I scream 
ed at the same moment that I came crashing through the doer. 1 think that I set se 
eral records for running, jumping, etc. on my way home. I am not at all sure of th 
but 1 cannot help wishing that an official from the American Athletic Association ha 
been present to officiate. 

1 heard later that Mr. Jutes had only intended to chop down the door, but Mr. Ju 
had an ax, a combination that I would never turn my back on. 

The next week was signularly uneventful, and Mr. Jutes had a suspicious look 
his face when I reported to the office for my check. He said nothing however. 

I was at the depth of my emotional cycle on the next week, and we had an unusu 
ly heavy day. Since there were so many people, there was naturally a shortage of 
saching material. This combination is unarmdable. Whenever one of the conditionlb 
exists, the other is sure to be found lurking in the same vacinity. Sack boys have 
been known to go stark, raving mad under these conditions. I showed a little m«o 
fortitude, but was very tired when seven o'clock finally arrived. 

Mr. Jutes was beginning to realize that he had misjudged me, and decided to gi 
me a little more responsability. This was evidenced by the fact that he asked me 
stay and help him close up. I was eager to prove my worth, and, though I was ex- 
tremely fatigued, I consented. The shelves all dusted, and all of the produce store 

he asked me to turn out the lights. I went back to the meat department wher j the 
switch box was located, and clicked them all off. 

I was in school Monday morning when I received a notice from the office that 
I was wanted on the phone. I went down, picked up the receiver, and was nearly 
deafened by the frantic scream that answered my salutation. 

"How many switches did you turn off Saturday night?" Mr. Jutes' voice re- 
sembled that of a man who had just faaMiitold that his wife had eloped with the ice 

"All of them," I replied, trying to retain as much dignity as possible. 

"No! No! No! * came the frantic reply. 

He then proceeded to explain, between sobs, that I had cut off the refrigera- 
tion in the meat storage room. Visions of ton upon ton of fresh meat being at- 
tacked by mold and other fungi came to my reeling brain. 

* Is there anything I can do?" I asked. 

His reply will have to be left to the imagination. He did gain a little respect 
through it though. I didn't know the old boy had it in him. 

Mr. Jutes couldn't fire me because he had not told me which switches I was 
to pull, but it was open war between us from this point on. He was keeping me un< 
der constant surveillance in the hope that I would make a wrong move; and I taking! 
careful note of the things that I did in order to avoid being fired. It was a gruel- 
ling struggle, and there were times when I would ask myself if it were all worth 
while. However, I stuck to my plan with bulldog tenacity. I nearly slipped one 
or two times, but Mr. Jutes happened to be looking the other way. 

The remainder of my stay was uneventful. I think that it was* this rather than 
any other thing that induced me to quit. That job had become a haven to which I 
could retire in order to avoid the hum-drum "methodity* of everyday existence, 
and when things began to calm down, I began to lose interest. 


I decided that I should leave in such a manner as to make Mr. Jutes remember 
2 for a long, long time. Not that there was much danger of his forgetting me as 
Lngs stood. I just wanted to be doubly sure. 

I picked the ideal psychological time. It was about two o'clock, and the lines 
people leading up to the booths went all the way to the back of the store. I turn- 
to my checker, and told her that I was going back to see Mr. Jutes for a few 
Lnutes. I called one of the package boys over to act as sacker in my absence and 
ide my way to the office. 

Mr. Jutes was alone. He was figuring up the payroll for the week. He was 
irtled at first, then suspiciously, he asked me to have a seat. I declined, telling 
n that I would only take a minute. He stopped what he was doing, and inquired 
tat it might be that I wanted. 

"I'm quiting," I tried to say as arrogantly as possible. 

Mr. Jutes had the look of a man who has just been absolved. He tried to con- 
3I his voice, but it broke with emotion. "You may pick up your envelope this 
"I want it now," I replied. 

Mr. Jutes' face frowned with horror. "My God'. You can't quit now." 
"Sure I can, and I want my check." 1 knew that this was the crowning cry. He 
uld not be likely to forget me for quite a while. 

Mr. Jutes looked down at the long lines of people pushing and shoving to bet into 
; checking booths. I thought that he was going to cry. Slowly, very slowly, he 
ured up my time, opened the cash drawer, and counted out my two dollars and 
•ty cents. 

"Goodbye, Jutes, It's been a real pleasure." I beamed cheerily at him. 

"Goodbye." Mr. Jutes suddenly looked older. His face was drawn and haggard, 
ilmost felt sorry for him. 

I waved goodbye to my co-workers as I sallied out the front door. I didn't 
ow what they were thinking, and I didn't much care. I was too happy about having 
d the last laugh on Jutes. 

Maybe I didn't do quite the right thing while I was working there. I don't know, 
[on't think about it much anymore. But somehow I can't help wondering at times 
Mr. Jutes ever thinks of me. 

- 23 

by David Landy 

What Is loneliness? 

It's being alone. But much, much more: 
Letters worn with reading; the unopened door; 
Rainy Saturday evenings; misted mountains framed 
In open windows; Slithering fears unnamed. 
the heart is a window. 

Where is loneliness? 

Into sombre skies, uncertainly, faint chimney 

smoke diffusing, 
Trees huddled together, eternally, limbs vainly 

The cruel, the unforgiving gods. Doors 

'Gainst the winds of despair. Tender thoughts 

the mind is a door. 

When is loneliness ? 

Driverless, strength spent, a truck standing 

in a mire; 
Helpless slave machine, a corpse on a muddy bier. 
It's Saturday night. Truckdrivers, laying 

in a drunken heap 
Abed, dreams of home, of love, of friends; 
angrily weep. 
the soul is a truckdriver. 

How is loneliness ? 

Weeping willows, a brood of green virgins 

drying their hair 
In the chilled breezes. "If we cannot know 

why should we care?" 
They say, swaying, abjectly abandoned, whispering 

"No, no, no. 
We have always been denied. We shall never 

never know." 
desire is a green virgin 

What is loneliness? 

Loneliness is the thumping stomach, the 

tasteless food. 
The sleepless night, the stifled thought, the 

blank mood. 
The lost caress, the trembling lip, the 

empty hand. 
The stricted heart, the aching Loin, the 

shifting sand. 
the rainy weary endless Saturday night. 






MS)'. I •:.". % Y 

faU. W4« 

THE DEC 'SIGN, Harriet Krofcelskt 3 

A DARKLE LOTOS. TO HIS LOTS, Mar* Oirvey' ..i 

HISTORIC SLOE LIGHT. Mark Stead man ., » 

GET EM SHOE BOY Henry Coffer jj 


Snapshots i 4 

BUTTONS AND BOWS, Ann Brovai.. t" 

Poems, Gl&ESord Clarke 



the pied pipes of cesjsy ?.a 

THE oik'* BOUNCE, F. Hear y Sterner I 

Book R*»-.» , Dorothy Thompson 24 

BRYAN STREET, Lee Goodwin 27 

GREAT EXPECTATIONS. Harriet Krobalski 28 

THE STOOGE. Bert Meyer : 23 

* « * 

The Armstrong Mercury is published quarterly by and for ih* 
students of Armstrong Junior College. The use of any person's 

name in this magaisine in fiction is to be regarded as coincidence 
Students of Armstrong Junior College lire urged to submit 
manuscripts tor pubKcstion in the Mercury. All contributions 
will be accepted or rejected by the Editor. 

Editor, Eleanor Rich 
Managing Editor, Millicent Me lave r 
Artists, Bob ft rosier & Esi<,*a Perkins 
Photographers, David Bergriu & Baxter 

Typists, Cussie Weisberg, Dot Stegta & 

Ruth Allen 

One never knows quite where 
the seeds of genius are sown, and 
who can think of a better place to 
break the earth than here at Arm- 
strong? The literary scope of 
the Mercury is unlimited, and 
essays, poems, articles, short 
stories — anything may be sub- 
mitted for consideration. 

For example: Harriet Kro- 
balski's satire, "The Decision" 
is a reflection on the many and 
varied exams she underwent be- 
fore ultimately becoming a full- 
fledged freshman here at Arm- 

Miss Lee Goodwin became 
acquainted with the actual Bryan 
street while in pursuit of props 
and costumes in the interest of 
the Savannah Playhouse. In her 
vivid free verse poem entitled 
"Bryan Street," she has por- 
trayed the poignant local color 
which that particuli soctton of 
town conveys to her. 

Ross Sterner, fellow editor of 
the Inkwell, assets that the in- 
spira'ion for his sports story, 
"The Big Bounce," was found in 
a comic magazine. 

Clifford Clarke maintains that 
the majority of his poems are 
written while traveling, as was 
"Altamaha" on a train en route 
from Miami. "The Brick Frag- 
ment "came to him one day when 
he stumbled on a brick which had 
fallen on the walk in front of a 


negro chui ch undergoing <Ju enac- 

A book review by Miss Doro- 
thy Thompson, psychology in- 
structor, indicates her is -crest 
in students and the methods env 
ployed to miJcn learning a more 
pleasurable, profitable • experi- 
ence for them. 

Henry Coffer's past experi- 
ence as a salesman in a shoe shop 
furnishes the background for his 
poem, "Get 'em Shoe Boy." 

The satirical humor of Mark 
Ste&dman, president of the sopho- 
more class, comes to light in his 
"Historic Sidelight." He'll be 
remembered by readers of last 
spring's Mercury for his story, 
"Package Out." 

We fervently hope that these 
personal sidelights of the vari- 
ous contributors will serve to 
enrich the pleasure of the reader 
and will also act as an incentive 
to other prospective quill drivers 
The editor wishes to take this 
opportunity to express sincerest 
gratitude to Bob Strozier and 
Eston Perkins for their untiring 
interest in designing the cover 
and the illustrations appearing 
throughout the Mercury. Many 
thanks also to Miss Harriet Davis 
and Mr. Hinckley Murphy. With- 
out their aid, this issue would 
have been an impossibility. Ac- 
knowledgment is also extended 
to the Savannah Gas Company for 
the use of their multigraph. 


tf I 


i ( I 


^^ by Harriet Kxobalski 

One of the most trying periods of life for the young adult is the 
"college entrance" phase. This begins, usually, in the junior year 
of high school. 

First you decide which colleges would alpreciate you most, then 
you send away for application blanks. These arrive fairly promptly. 
But have you e irer tried to fill out one of the. things sensibly? 

"How many parents do you have?" one fonn may ask, while 
another wonders whether you have ever gone to school. They also 
ask for references: people who know you well-— not your relatives, 
friends or teachers. Ask your milkman. 

On top of ill this the application has a weird physical question- 
naire. Do you crack your knuckles? Can you blow bubbles? Are 
you able to wiggle your ears? 

But for the sake of education, you patiently undergo this tedious 
routine and send the completed forms back to the schools. 

And so for the next year you wait, and wait and wait. 

Then one beautiful day a letter arrives. You are requested to 
take scholastic aptitude examinations. Three weeks later on a bright 
Saturday morning you wake up to find yourself in a classroom with a 
lot of other people. Imagine--Saturday morning in school. The tests 
begin: you see before you some brain-wracking math problems, gram- 
mar questions, and contemporary h : story queries. Your ne' es are 
a-tingle. You can hardly wait to tackle them. 

Ah. They fooled you. Your brain will not have to function here. 
All you have to do is pick an answer, any answer. None of them are 
right, anyhow. 

But wait. The best is yet to come. You are going to play an 
intellectual game of darts. That's right. It's, of all things, an interest 


.After three hours of testing you go home to wait for m->rc n.acthtJ 
Yoi have plenty of time to think You think about college an- speak 
with irier.J; who attend these institutions. As the * ;eks> ^>o by, not a 
word do you :-->m Va*s\r, Smith, or Armstrong. And during 

this time a i -: it \.ork in your cranium. Slowly--oh so slowly 

it dawns upoi. y ^or the :irst time in your life yovi are leally 

sure of something. iu know that you can only pursue one coarse if 
you aie to be happy. 

But your thoughts .a>. 'nte erupted. You hear from Vassar, Smith 
and Armstrong, [tit I expected. They all accept yow with schol 

ships. With a palpitating heart you sit down to write. You are going t 
reveal your innermost secret. You are going to reveal to them your 
decision. You realize someone must get hurt. 

You write; 

Dear Gentlemen: 

Thank you for your kindness. I with to take this opportunity 
to tell you of my decision. My future happiness can only be in- 
sured behind a counter at F. W. Woolworth's. 




Mary Conway 

Here I sits a-top dis nail-keg 

Thinkin' 'bout you mighty lot; 

Feel riem breezes from de ocean--? 

Boy, it shore is awful hot. 

Thought I'd drop you just a line 'n 

See why you hain't writ me yet. 

If you soon don't answer dis, den 

Here I will no longer set. 

Child, I's lonesome for your sweet face, 

And 1 longs to see you too; 

Long to kiss dem smilin' cheeks and 

Lips what tastes like honey-dew. 

So, my Lambie-pie, I's writin'-- 

"You just hurry back to me; 

Waste no time and soon you'll see, Love 

Just how 'fectionate I can be." 


by Mark Sfceadman 

Have you ever wondered what life was like when- -"Knights 
were bold and ladies fair?" Weli, you may now step wos.tjeriiig. 
While delving through the Swiss archives in Berne last t r i&ooa 1 
turned up a most interesting document. It is an account A the axe 
and times of Prince Ludwig, mm of Kink Otto and Qaeea Feodrovna 
of Lichtenstein. The document was written by the king's pergonal 
serving man, and presents (I suppose) a very accurate picture of 
life at this period. 

--High in its mountain fastnes-„ on the shores of be^uc* ■ i5 .Lake 
Constance stood the castle of K: tg Otto of Lichtenstein. With all 
the tenacity of their aristocratic breeding, this last of the royal 
families clung to their time- vs on creed of power. With a kink, yet 
firm hand, King Otto ruled the sixty-five square miles of his domain 
in such a manner that peasants loved him, highwaymen feared him, 
and his soldiers looked upon him with deep-seated admiration. 


Though King Otto had many heroic deeds to his credit, probably 
the outstanding ome was his great act of valor in the battle of Punaks. 
It was during '.'-is bloody engagement against Saladin Abum Abuck, 
maharaja of P • t . that he subdued the great Indian potentate by 
single-handed" y ■ Bering a legion of six hundred knights to charge to 
their deaths in a gloriously successful attempt to breach the walls of 
the fortress. With what tireless energy and diligence he urged them 
to the fray. With what noble bearing he rode to a hilltop ten miles 
away in order to observe the progress of the assault. Well might his 
men be proud of the exploits of such a worthy. 

The members of this royal family were, at heart, a group of very 
simple people. Their six hundred room castle with its complement of 
three thousand liveried servants was kept only because the royal front 
had to be kept up _ As the king himself put it: 

"I have often thought that I would enjoy living in a less ostenta- 
tious setting. A small villa on the Riviera, or, perhaps, a humble 
palace in Nepal Home," he would philosophize, "is where you hang 
your crown." 

How could his subjects help loving such a touched and simple mind? 

Queen Feodrovna was a great favorite with the peasants also. 
Jolly and jovial at all times, she spent most of her waking hours in 
her spacious kitchen testing new dishes. But perhaps her robust figure 
most eloquently expressed the joy that she found in living. Every line, 
every curve, ever ' chin of her countenance bespoke the rich, abounding, 
nature of her country. Her stately bearing gave her an imposing air. 
When she entered a room, she seemed to fill it. In fact, she very nearN 
did. But enough, I wander. Let me say simply that she led a very full 

Black spot on the family escutcheon was Little Ludwig. Little 
Ludwig was the unfortunate result of too much family intermarriage 
seen so often in families of high estate. The folks liked to say that 
Little Ludwig just--"couldn't catch on quickly"--but the painful truth 
was that he just hadn't been gifted with the same amount of grey matter 
a" the rest of the family. Put simply — Little Ludwig bore all the 
earmarks of a blossoming idiot. 

His family first suspected his mental aberrancy when he was found 
In the west wing building a robin's neat in his hair. The terrible truth 
dawned upon them when he jumped off the castle keep thrashing his 
arms and screaming, "Look a' me, I'm a dicky bird." 

After many various methods had been unsuccessfully tried to put 
Little Ludwig into a more desirable frame of mind, it was finally 
decided (through some obscure process of reasoning known only to kings 
and queens) that a marriage would be the solution to the whole problem. 
The king and queen accordingly began an appraisal of various available 
young princesses. The princess Decimus of Nepal, was ultimately 
decided upon by virture of the fact that she was the most far removed 
from civilization, and therefore the least likely to have been informed 
of little Ludwig's caprices—word of which having by this time gotten 
around to most neighboring kingdoms. 



The bride having been decided upon, it was considered a happy 
thought to notify her parents of the coming joyous event. King Otto 
went immediately to his private courier, Maiibar, and dispatched 
him upon his private steed, Palfry, to carry the glad tidings to the 
King and queen of Nepal. 

"Remember, Maiibar, you ire neither to rest (except from 9 am. 
till 6 p.m.) nor sleep (except at night--naturally), eat (except during 
and between meals, of course), nor drink (except when you are thirsty) 
until you have brought the glad tidings to the king and queen of Nepal. 
Once this is done, you will return (still under the aforementioned 
stipulations) immediately with the Princess Decimus and her retinue. 
It will be a grueling journey, I know, so here is a flask of my own 


private brand of Rhine wine to see you through," and he gave him a 
knowing wink. 

The attendents having finished with Palfry at about this time, 
Malibar saluted the king and his peers (also the floating dock, dry- 
dock, and mizzen mast) leaped to saddle and galloped away. Two 
years later, after divers adventures, he reached Nepal. Three years 
later, after divers adventures, he returned to Lichtenstein with 
Princess Decimus and her retinue--which consisted of; a Mohammedan J 
fakir, three gilt statues of Buddah, an old crone who sold holy relics, 
ten ladies in waiting (we won't go into what they were waiting for) a 
paragraph girl (a small, female, pageboy), and a Nepalitan campfire 
girl on a pogo stick. Thus regally attended, she entered the castle 
of Lichtenstein. 

During the five years just mentioned, Little Ludwig had grown 
bigger and more unmanageable. So much so, in fact, that the king 
and queen had been forced to employ two little playmates for him. 
One, Grocius, had dallied around as a professional wrestler, but had 
gotten himself barred from the ring on account of having killed two 
opponents of high birth. The other, Drocius, had for two years been 
employed as a bouncer in the Copabannana, a hot spot in Algiers. 
Together they weighted about half a ton, and would, when layed end to 
end, have measured about two thirds of the flight of a grey goose 
shaft. Under their watchful care, Little Ludwig had grown almost 

Never had the old ivy-covered walls of the Lichtensteinian castle 
seen such a furor as began with the arrival of Princess Decimus. 
Everyone was all astir and abustle making ready the grand ballroom 
for the reception, decorating the chapel, and getting out the invita- 
tions. Sometimes the king and queen would wonder if it were all 
worth the effort. At such times they were wont to look out of the 
window into the court yard, where they could see Little Ludwig being 
led around during his exercise period. After a few moments reflec- 
tion, they would "hump" themselves with more zeal than ever, con- 
vinced that it was well worth the effort. 

The wedding came off very nicely, all things considered, and was 
a credit to both houses participating. I have here an article about 
the affair as it appeared in the Lichtenstein Leader, a local news 
sheet of some notoriety. I should like to quote: 


(MP) Wedding of Little Ludwig, son of King Otto and Queen 
Feodrovna of Lichtenstein, to Princess Decimus, daughter of 
King Aahradhaan and Queen Aahradhaien of Nepal, outstanding social 
event of the year. 

Medieval Press 


The wedding took place as quietly Wind simply as possible under 
the circumstances. That is to say, considering the high ranks of the 

participants. The family chapel—said to b<? ova of the most beautiful 
in the world (it was patterned after the fannous Notre Dame Cathedral 
of Paris— except that . L he dimensions were doubled)— was taste fully 
decorated with epiphytes on a handsome base of tamarind- -which com- 
bination w;=s viftry pleasing to the eyes. 

The Archbishop of Urgel had taken his place at th e altar, and al) 
of the noise had subsided, when tha great doors to the h: J were opened 
amidst a [:vely fanfare from the royal trumpeters. I wish t.c rej-iark 
here that it was :■ fair fanfare as fanfares fare, but fanfares have been 
known to fairer. As I was saying--as the great doors opened, out 
burst the hfel ilitan campfire giri on her pogo stick. She bounced merrily 
down the aisle titrewing chrysanthemum seeds over the bridal path. 
This gay beginning :iervec3 to put the guests in just the right mood for 
the occasion. The nymph on the pogo stick was. immediately followed by 
the old crone who was reflectively masticating a large quid of tobacco. 
A habit, no doubt, picked up during her extensive travels in the new 
world where she sojourned for a brief while due to her health. (The 
Lisbon police: are still looking for her.) Next carne the fakir carrying 
both arms aloft. (Ah, the mystery of the East.) Next came the ladies 
in waiting who half trickled, half hootchie-kootchied down the aisle, 
then drapeci themselves languidly over the altar, organ, Archishop, and 
occupants of the first row of pew.;. Following them r.ame the paragraph 
girl bearing the gilv Buddhas, which she arranged in a semi-circle 
around the alter. The Archbishop objected strenuously at first, b it after 
King Otto took him aside and. whimpered co him lor a few mom< 
(rumor has Lt that the king made reference tc a certain duchy in the 
Pyrenees) he was all smiles, and didn't suem to t lind the ruby-eyed 
stares Of the three heathen figures, The F i i c< Decimus then made 
her entrance amid renewed out bursts from the brass section. She 
wore a headpiece of pearls, bracelets of platimm , .1 dress of some 
"filmy" stuff that was about half way between a maddening red and 
an aggravating orange, and around her neck— a garland of eight i.iack 
orchids--one for every year of her life. 

The bride and her accessories having been safely squared a 
groom was now brought in, heralded by a fanfare that fared 
the preceeding one, and greeted by the guests. Escorted by Grocius en 
the one side and Drocius on the other, he was tastefully attired , 
tyrian purple strait jacket faced with gold braid, pale yellov jodpi irs, 
and ankle-length patent leather boots. 

After the vows had been exchanged the guests were h 1 the 

ballroom and the Princess was led to a pavillion which had baen erected 
especially for the occasion. She sat quietly playing with a set of oriental 
dolls, a wedding gift from her parents. The guests were feted with 
feasting, drinking, and other wholesome amusements. Outstanding 
feature of the programme was broad sword combat between two knights of 
the realm. It was rendered with awe-inspiring faithfulness to detail, and 
ended to the complete satisfaction of the guests. That is to say, with 

both participants mortally wounded. The court jester was then brfc 
in and told to jest. After a series of hilarious antics, he was h 
by the king s command, from the main chandelier amid shrieks 
approbation -iiid howls of laughter from the guests. It was refres 
all to see how gay and playful the king could be in spite of the bur 
imposed upon him by the affairs of state. At this point the king c 
for silence, and announced that since his son had come of age, he 
going to leave him in full command while he and the que'en fulfilled 
long lingering desire to take a yak trip. In fact, he went so far thatt 
neither he nor the queen were ever heard of again. So Little Lud 
under the helpful care of Grocius and Drocius, ruled until his unti 
death. (He decided that he wanted to be a drowned body. It was 
only thing that he ever did realistically in his life. The corpse w 
found floating face down in the moat by the gate keeper. He paid m 
attention to it at first, thinking that it was just another prime mini 
who had spurned the advances of the queen (who, by the way, had t 
out to be a nymphomaniac). Something, however about the lordly 
it floated caught his eye and urged him to investigate. When he re 
whom the body belonged to--he immediately proceeded to fish it O' 
his pike and shout up the guard. The body was kept in state for t' 
weeks, but since no one came to look at it, and the household serv, 
began to complain, he was buried without pomp or ceremony. In 
without even a grave. They just stood him in a corner, and dusted 
off every once \n awhile. 

And to this very day, reader, I say, you may find that same old 
castle. High in the mountains of Lichtenstein on the shores of bei 
Lake Constance.'. .. .but it is no longer the proud seat of authority 
once was. Time and the times have changed it. That fine old famil 
degenerated into a reeling, seething, mass of mental short circuits! 
fact, I wouldn't advise going there, unless you would enjoy witnessii 
several disgusting imitations of the leaning tower of Pisa, or (and 
confess it) a really fine impression of the Hanging Gardens of Bab 




'Smitty, watch me handle her when she comes in the store. 

'In just two tiny seconds flat, I'll sell her 6-2-4 

'Good morning, ma'm,' I then commence, 'What c^n I do for you?' 

'Ah doesn't know, suh : " she replies, 'Ah's lookin' fob a shoe.' 

*A shos? Rt?., yellow, green or black — I have it right back here. 
'What fiae is that? A six, you say? I've got it, never fear.' 

(A sia a six. a six, a six -- I've nothing less than nine 

Oh, well, from looking at her foot, a nine should fit just fine.) 

On goes the <;h< e--'It feels too tight. What size is this?' she booms. 
Off comes the shoe--she sees the nine and o'er me fiercely looms. 
'Ah told ycu that Ah wears a six and now you bring a nine. 
'Ah wants to see the boss-man here--He'll put you back in line.' 

(Now that's e xactly what I fear. I'll have to think, but fast. 
And then it dawns --a good excuse has come to me at last.) 
'Our sizing system is quite new; we brought it o'er from Spain; 
'The size is printed upside down to make it look more plain.' 

'It feels too tight on me,' she says. 'This six will never do. 
'I'll tell you what I'll let you do--just show Tie every sho? ' 
'But 1 -an fix that tightness now; it's just because *s new. 
'I've got a "whosis set" back there that'll fix it up for you ' 

(In other words, dear customer, the way o m?.ke it fit 
Is: take the poor =hoe in the back and stre ch the fool from it.) 
I soon return with shoe in hand and r;iance up toward the door; 
And there I see her scooting out, and into another store. 

— Henry Coffer 

The reason some men do not succeed is because their wishbone 
is where their backbone ought tr. be. 

— Oliver Wendell Holmes 






After supper, Kerry ran into the living room to snatch the tiny 
Swiss music box before Michele could get it. Every a Ight thi re is a 
struggle over the music box. All day it lies on the ?ble, undisturbed. 
Finally, the music box situation was straighten ! ■ ut on a compromise 
(you wind it and then Michele winds it) basis. 

Then I settled down with my book, a peculiar obstinacy of my 
behavior after supper wJ Irti ! do not myrelf ut '< . .tand, since I have 
never, not once, finished more than half a page before being interrupted. 

Between playings oJ f .he music box (the tune an artless little Mo> 
song) a slight, rasping Bound at the back door made itself heard. Per- 
haps meowing, a eat Ki vent out officiously to see what it was. His 
voice floated back, "I can ne; r some kittens, but I can't see any." 
Michele 'ent out to see about it, too. trailing the feet of her pajamas, 
which were a little too long for 

Mama: "Close the door now it is quite cold." 

Kerry: "All right, I will, but I just want to see the kittens." 

Mama: "Look at them and then close the door." 

Nothing happened. It never does, with children. 

Already, I was stopped with the book. 

Kerry ran back into the living room and put his mouth close to 
my ear the way he does when he wants something and is afraid the 
other parent will forbid it. "Come out and see the kittens." 

"I'm reading the book. Now you look at the cats and then close 
the door. ' ' 



Half a page later, mother goes out to i >• vel ether the docr< 
be closed before the house is cold completely. S - comes back . rA 
asks if I will come out. I give up 

The kittens were red-eyed, wet, mangy creatures more dead than 
alive. We were lost. 

1 suppose it was foolish to take them in and more ioi lish t.o f 
them. They were too young to eat. out of the saucer, s . I had to hunt 
a medicine dropper. Kerry got awfully in the way, fas::h ated as ever 
by the little animal:;. "'One of them's got white mittens, sc of 

"And the other' one's all gray." Michel'- echoed. 

From the Living rcom came mother's voice (the only voice of 
reason in a crisi 3 like this): "No use getting all worked up about them, 
we simply caii'i have a house full of cats and sick animals.. 

Kerry grew :t*.ious (always wanting to clutch animals to himself) 
"They are really trying hard to eat that milk and get welJ." He looked 
up at me nodding his head to make me say yes. 

...mangy, red eyed little beasts with some kind >f infection 

Fed, still shivering, the kittens were put away in a cardboard box 
by the stove in the hall. Even together, they were hardly as big as a 
man's fist. Michele ran into the living room to bring trie music box. 

"I'm-a play rnu-sic for kit-ties," she said, running her words 
together. The cats however lay stoically indifferent t.o the music which 
stopped half-way through on a rising note, strange, half-questioning. 

"And now, to bed with you children. You, Michele, put the music 
box on the piano, you'll nevf;r get to sleep for winding it." 

Kerry was last to bed (dawdling in the bathroom, brushing his teeth) 
and he snuggled in the cold sheets. He gave me a merry smile; ''We 
saved 'em, didn't we, Father? Just like the story about the north pole. 
They would have died in the wet and cold!' 

' 'I suppose so." 

"Can I feed them in the morning if I'm careful and don't hurt them?" 

"Yes; now go to sleep." 

The lighi. was left on in his room, and I returned to the biography 
[ had been reading, a biography of Mozart. Perhaps it could be finished 
in time for the Wednesday deadline for the paper. 

"The legend of Mozart's burial is considered doubtful h, Later 
scholars. The story that his coffin was dumped with indecent 
haste by careless carters is probably part fact, part fiction. 
The night he died was a wild and stormy night, but nobody knows 
the exact circumstances in which the tragic great musician ctie-i, 
nor how he was buried, nor where." 

Mother put down her sewing basket. "We simply can't keep those 
:ats." You might as well get rid of them tonight. You know what it'll 

"But the children..." 

"I'll tell them we had to put them out." 

"All right, I suppose you're right. I'll do it later." 

"No, now: darling, I hate it, too." 


mr.^^^H 7 




QfOOO - 



Yes, it had to be done. I punched some holes in a paper bag 
and when th** cats were put into it, they roused up, giving piping 
thin mecws, scrat. . 'J-e paper baj. in fright to get out I put 

them in the gas ov d waited for the scratching to get fainter 

and fainter until they • I5t be dead. But they lived tenaciously, 
the scratching kept or r elt how ugly it must br '. .> be la a 

paper bag, dying. But after h 'ong time they were dead. 

The dirt in the back yard was hard and wet and clayey The 
biography and the unpleasant job were a depressing combination 
and I could not avoid thinking about the cart and the wretched mar, 
how he was thrown off the cart by the indifferent drovers anxious 
to avoid going all the way to the cemetery on a stormy night. Ar.d now, 
in the back yard the cold was joined by rain and I dug thinking of the 

lines from the Book, " Who hath gathered the wind in his fists? 

There are three things never satisfied, yea, four things which say 
not "It is enough: the grave; and the barren womb; the earth that is 
not filled with water..." 

Then I was back in the house, suddenly chilled to the bone, won- 
dering why I had forgotten a coat. And I suppose I must have made a 
lot of noise banging around up in the attic where I went for a book 
that had been put away. Mother asked what it was I wanted. 

It was late when I finally was not angry with myself any more 
and got to sleep. In the morning Kerry was up first. When he did 
not find the box in the 1 ill, he ran in to us--"What happened?" 

"I had to put then; ou*. last night." 

"Not in the rain." 

"No, I had to put them out, son." 

He looked at me steadily. I wondered if he did not understand 
what I meant. 

After breakfast he a in not run out to play, though the rain had 
stopped. He sat on the sofa winding up the swiss music box, listening 
to the half-sad, half-gay little tune. When after a time he lost interest 
and put the box down, he wen. outside, scuffling his shoes on the floor. 
I wanted to say something about darkness and rain: wind: and a box 
flung down. But I could not think how to say it to him. 


Education is a means to an end, and that end is learning to 

Oliver Wendell Holmes 




With the styles in women's clothing changing ever? minute as they 
have been lately, one hardly has any idea what to wear, where and when. 
If this is your trouble, here are a few general hints, tried and true, which 
can't help but get you places. What places? Who kr> >ws ? 

In the first place, if your date simply refuses to let you in on the 
secret of the evening's plans, you should most definitely wear an even- 
ing dress, "h: taows but. what he may be planning to take you to a 
formal as a special surprise? Besides, if it turns out to be a weiner 
roast instead, • i may still feel perfectly at ease because the effect of 
the moonlight and the shadows from the fire will tend to make you look 
more like a dream than anyone who may have come in blue jeans or 

If you know for sure that you are going bowling, be sure to wear your 
prettiest party dress. You'll certainly make a fine impression on all 
present because most people don't wear anything but their oldest clothes 
for such sports. 

Naturally, ; f you're going on a hike in the woods, spike heels are 
your best bet. If you get a little tired that will only serve to show 
how fragile you are. It will also give you a grand opportunity to make 
HIM think that you think that he's i great big ol' he-man as you ooh and 
ah over his brute strength while he totes you back home. Another case 
where your four-inchers may come in handy is at a dance (if yc i are 
especially tall, that is). Aside from the fact that your feet feel so goc , 
you lend a little extra dignity to your partner by letting him look, up to 
you towering two feet ever his head. 

Make your special dreamboat thin! ght in step with the times 

by going completely out for the New ! ooi T is achieved by letting 

your skirts trail gracefully along the fli r whet- ?e'll be sure to trip on 
them. Another way would be to wear your pencil skirts so tight that 
you can hardly walk. (This gives the impression that you're very dainty 
because of your tiny, baby steps.) If you have an idea that he might like 
the sweet old-fashioned type better, you may be quite justified in wear- 
ing your skirts above your knees, your sweaters baggy and only about 
two inches above your hem. 

Whatever you do, don't be Miss In Between. Go all the way to one 
extreme or the other. Above all let this be your motto: 

Be outdone by none. 

A man never so beautifully shows his strength as when he respects 
a woman's weakness. 

Douglas Jerrold 




A broken brick one corner gone 

Unearthed by scraping shoe, 
Kicked awinding to the road's edge 
To gather the dust, absorb the dew. 

Water and clay born of a mould 

And shaped like all the others; 
Somewhere in the space of time 
Stacked by his red-faced brothers. 

By the builder's plan they were used 
In a cathedral, majestic and tall; 
Then these bricks solidly lay 
In their place in the mighty wall. 

Pressure of time and blasts of storm 
Were at work 'til the great roof fell; 
All lei then of the efforts of men 
Were he walls of that hollow shell. 

Long years strode by, green lichens grew 
On the walls, but these fell too. 
Men c .vme to salvage and cart away 
The bricks they wanted to use anew. 

But one brick was chipped by a worker 
As he sY r . vel'd out a load; 
Quick judgment came: the faded brick 
Was tossed aimlessly into the road. 

A broken brick one corner gone 

Stepped o'er, walked on, kicked away. 
Created, used, broken, discarded; 
The cycle completed clay to clay. 

Clifford Clarke 



(On crossing the Altamaha river at twilight) 

Black ribbon going somewhere. 

Sounds heard. 

Splash? of bream and marauding "cat." 
Wavelets on the shore lap-lap-lap. 
Rippling waters that softly chat. 

Black ribbon. 

Black road leading somewhere. 

Colors seen. 

Depths of inky jade opaque. 
Frothy green around the reeds. 
Swirling white or perch's wake. 

Black road. 

Black highway to somewhere. 

Secrets hidden. 

Waters slither past submerged stones. 
Old brown logs, rotting and foul. 
Tides slide over a dead negro's bones. 

Black highway. 

Black ribbon 

Black road 

Black highway 

twisting, crawling, snaking to hell. 

hellish Altamaha! 

.Clifford Clarke 



Tht j-'ip. ■ 
Stands unsfi 
Ar tor g the I 

Of Cerisy 

All is still. 

No tartan 
Clothes his 

Gaunt figure 

Night is chill. 

Men are there 

Too, waiting 

In suspense 

For the unseen 

To begin his lay- 
He slowly 
Moves thro 
The darkening 
For- il . pause 

..■s play. 

Sounds pour forth 
Ha ind 

FlaunL ;nen 

D e ■ \ r . 



• • • 

They i; I 

The Piper who 

Plays hit weird 


They are a ' ! 

Cerisy is 

Quiet now 

War has come and 

Gone the dead 

Have given up breath. 

These men are 
Those who 
Listened and 
Followed the 
Pied Piper of Deatl 

Clifford Clarke 




by R. Henry Sterner 

Jimmy Stilts began to feel butterflies zipping up and down in his 
stomach. It was the last quarter of the all-important State-Tech basket- 
ball game; a conference title rested on the outcome. State was ahead 
but Tech kept nipping at the lead every time the State basketeers got 
what looked to be a comfortable margin. The score now was State 51, 
Tech 48, and about eight minutes remained. 

On the State bench Jimmy started to relax. "Take it easy," he 
told himself, "it's not you that Tech is catching up with, why you 
haven't even played tonight and you won't unless a miracle happens." 
But as he said this his thoughts drifted back to the first quarter. 

It was in the first quarter that Sam Spiderman, the tall center of 
the State team, had twisted his ankle. Joe McGonagle his relief had 
played for a while and when he was winded, Billy Ponders the third 
string center had gone in. But Ponders must have eaten the wrong food 
that day because he became sick and McGonagle had to go back in. 
"Why, Mac has been playing since the second period," thought Jimmy. 

He started to feel uneasy again. He was the only center left on the 
squad. State carried four men as centers and Jimmy was the last one. 
His total playing time for the whole year totaled six and three quarters 
minutes. This he knew exactly because his roommate had kept a stop 
watch at all the games to see just how long he played. 

The shrill whistle of the referee brought him back to reality. Mc- 
Gonagle had fouled the Tech center while the latter was shooting and to 
make matters worse, the shot dropped in. Tech was only a point behind 
and the center took his time and dropped in the foul shot to know the 

The roar of the crowd swelled the stadium, pleading with State to 
Sake the lead again. While the shouting was at its height Jimmy looked 
it the coach. The guy was turning green. And then Jimmy realized 
why. That last foul had been the fourth one called on McGonagle. One 
more and he was out of the game. The coach got up and walked down 
;he bench to where Spiderman, the first string center, was sitting. One 
Look at the badly twisted ankle and the coach turned greener. Then he 
Looked down the bench to where Ponders was sitting holding his sick 
stomach with both hands. 

Then the coach looked at him. Jimmy felt the sweat break out all 
aver him. The coach called him over and Jimmy practically leaped 
Dff the bench. 

"Take off your warmups and loosen up. I don't think Mac will 
Last the game out," the coach barked at him. 

Before Jimmy could answer, the roar of the crowd turned both him 
and the coach around to look at the floor. McGonagle had sunk a long 
Dne and moved State ahead. The coach became a somewhat lighter 
shade of green. As he turned to talk to Jimmy the roar of the crowd 



made them turn around again. Tech had made another basket from tfl 
field and the score was tied again. The coach, too sick to say anythifl 
just motioned for Jimmy to take off his warmup suit. 

Jimmy's hands were like ice as he fumbled with his warmup suit| 
He had hardly gotten out of it when the whistle blew and McGonagle 
came trotting off the floor. He had committed his fifth personal foul! 

The coach, looking at Jimmy as if he expected only the very, verl 
worst, motioned him into the game. 

He scrambled off the bench and almost tripped in his eagerness tl 
report to the referee. As he lined up for the foul shot he noted that I 



here was but a minute and a half left to play. 

The Tech. center missed hif free shot and the State crowd sighed 
vith relief. There v/as a scramble for the ball under the basket. Jim- 
my, somewhat to his own surprise, managed to get the ball and he flipped 
t pass to Anders, a forward. They worked the ball down the floor and a 
lesperation shot by another of the State players, Jenkins, went wild. 

Jimmy tried to follow Jenkins' shot but the ball bounded off the rim 
nto a Tech player's hands. Jimmy turned and started to sprint up the 
loor to get into defensive position but somehow he got his feet tangled 
md sprawled out right ok the floor under his own basket. 

He lay there »n a state of horror as he watched the Tech players 
vork the ball up the floor. Suddenly Anders took a chance and leaped 
>ut of position to grab the oval from a startled Tech man. Jimmy sud- 
lenly realized where he was— under his own basket all by himself. 
'Anders," he screamed and, somehow, through the noise of the crowd, 
ie was heard. 

Anders cut loose with a long pass that he lobbed like a football, 
immy stood under his basket and waited. The confused Tech basket- 
:ers tore down the floor to try and stop his shot. Jimmy heard them 
:oming and he risk ! n lock. When he turned his eyes back to where 
he ball was coming frotxi, he found to his immediate horror that he 
tad lost sight of the ball in the bright lights that shone over the play- 
ng court. 

Suddenly the ball appeared. It came right at his head. Jimmy 
lidn't have time to put his hands up and the oval smacked him right 
•etween the eyes. Brigbi lights shone and his head spun around and 
iround. It seemed as ii someone were playing a piano in his cranium 
.nd that the pianist waj bitting the keys with a baseball bat. 

The sharp odor of ammonia caused his head to clear. "What hap- 
lened?" he stammered weakly. He looked round and saw he was in 
he dressing room. The whole team was gathered around him. He 
[lanced up and saw the coach's sn iling face and he began to feel better, 
things couldn't have been too bad if the coach were smiling. "You just 
nade the play of the year," said the coach. "After the pass from An- 
lers hit you, the ball bounced right into the basket." 

"That's right, Jimmy," added Ande~£ "and those i---o points were 
he winning points." 

Just then a sportswriter ran up and pushed his way through the 

"What have you got to say about that play you made, Stilts?*' 
.sked the newshound, obviously laughing to hims ell about Jimmy. 

Jimmy smiled and replied, "Oh, we had that play in practice. We 
ailed it the "big bounce." 

The laughter of his teammates drove the newspaper man to cover 
.nd Jimmy felt pretty good as his buddies carried him into the shower 
ind threw him in, uniform and all. 


I I 


This title. Dynamics of Learning, coenes from the Creek word for 
powe r . It carries the meaning of movu>fc forces or the "laws relating 
to moving forces," active as opposed to static or potential , mechanics, 
static relates to '"bodies as held at rett by the forces acting on them." 
Potential describes existence "in possibility only, as opposed to actual! 

The title of this book gives a preview of the author's position on 
learning. Re-stated, he writes about "The moving forces of learning-l 
not learning held at rest by forces acting on it." 

Learning, tn the author, is active, setting into motion a new orgar.-l 
ization of the learner's self. If this meaning is "radical" it is so by 
redefining the 'root'' of education. Mr. Cantor re-examines the fundll 
mental purpose of education in the light of what must necessarily hap * 
to the learner : J *.his kind of learning takes place ''Education has no 
led students to view themselves and their interests with detachment 
so that they might be led to wonder at themselves, and to try to undei 
stand others, and the world they all inhabit." From his ten years o 
teaching students in m:«.vy types of groups the author presents, perhap 
for the first time, an t tort to "demonstrate system atically what take! 
pl;-.ce when instructors and students get together to explore ideas." 
Thus, to support his re-statement of the principles which operate in a 
learning experience, he presents specific techniques of teaching and 
learning with "clinical" evidence directly from the classroom. 

What happen *o the teacher if the learner becomes the center of- 
"moving forces.?" Mr. Cj itor's lead quotation suggests the answer- 
"To seek and to find a method of instruction, by which teachers may 
teach less, but learners may learn more." Basically this forces us 

away from Education by Authority in which the student is static, to 

be molded by forces acting upon him, or in which the student "stores 
his knowledge against possible mechanistic recall at a mythical future 
date. If the teacher is no longer an agent who tells the student what tol 

think, what to remember, what to believe, what place has he in the 

classroom? This will depend on where the learner is in the process 4 
"learning more." The teacher's sensitivity to and understanding of til 
process in his students is the "Professional discipline" of teaching. 
Mr. Cantor's book of clinical evidence illustrates the pattern of exp« 



ence that he has found to exist in ct . 3$ students, and i '.-us ' 

gives us seme very specific content to -.. ' sional dlscfpl 


If students are ready to learn actively, tlw.\ can bear to search 
their own meanings and attitudes; they jre able to hear at; .--nd 

meanings which differ from their own; and can arrive at an enlarged 
understanding and use of their own experience. Will" these etodei 
the teacher's function is to encourage, skillfully* ear Lud Bt*S forinu- 
lation and recognition of the meanings which are reai t. Ira. As 
student t ;>jt for new insight— -fcrr the difference 
and meaning found by others-- the teacher sets the stage, so to ..pea';!, 
for these differences to gain free expression- -whether the differences 
come fror tie experience of other students, the experience of the 
teacher, repaj .. from text book writers, other written material, or 
from other specialists in the field. "The Instructor provides the aid; 
he cannot guran<ee the willingness of the student to do something abort 
learning. He can free the student from fear of authority, lowered self 
esteem, the feeling of insignificance; he can release him to express 
himself, to show his differences, his disagreements, and he can help 
him to acquire a sense of determining for himself just what the course 
means to him " So also, "the students must be helped to define for 
themselves how they are to meet the responsibilities which entering 
the course imposes upon them." 

If the students are not ready to learn actively, :he teacher cannot 
force their interest 01 readiness to learn. He can only hold to us 
legitimate responsibility and unde rstand the struggle which t.L • students 
experience as they try to deal with their i t sponsibility. ivi St >f this 
book, The Dynamics of Learning, gives details and illustrations of this 
struggle. Resistance comes out in daydreaming, withdrawal from dis- 
cussion, submission, imposing responsib on io the instructor, anx- 
iety, fighting against any differing opinions. Resistance creates tension, 
and has discomfort in it. The next chapter, bi valence, shows a 
variety of ways different students deal with their conflicts in the learn- 
ing experience. Again, what they do about it may give rise to other ten- 
sions-^ wish to express themselves., but accompanied by -.";:i.: sion 
hostility, guilt, dependence. These ways of dealing with the stj ggle of 
active learning are negative. But this tension, too, is painful, • d pro- 
duces, usually, a movement out of the dilemma of Projector;, Lr, this 
chapter are examples of how students, struggling against the respons- 
ibility of active learning, reject the opportunity to lea? n. They assert 
themselves by not listening, bend what they "hear" to theii vn uses, 
give lip-service to the words but not the meanings of the ct'&cussion, pit 
their "wills" against others'--e^,scially that of the teacher. Fiaal readi- 
Iness for learning comes with Ide -itification . In this chapter the author 
(shows how students secure enough not to fight off change in themselves, 
|can sincerely try to underztand someone who represents difference. In 
exploring this difference, they can like, or become like, the instructor 
ior subject matter or fellow student who previously disturbed them out 
of their comfortable security. 



It is hard to convey in words how closely this author toucher the 
dally experience o; - «>r.t and instructor. Reading his book is like 
exploring oneself for UM ixrst time in a mirror. What the author says 
feels right, because I ave known it to be that way with us. If it feels 
right, one can see learning as a means of becoming a "creative indivi- 
dual, unafraid to express whfct he stands for and confident enough in his 
own integrity to respect both the strength and weakness in others. This,' 
says the author, "is being democratic --which is the purpose of education. 

Webster's Collegiate Dictionary, 3rd Ed. 
^Dynamics of Learning , p. 2 
3 Ibid.,p.8-9~ 

4 The Great Didactic of Comenius (1628-1632) 
^Dynamics of Learning , p. 90 
6 Ibid., p.276~ 

There is no chance and no anarchy in the universe. AH is system 
and gradation. Every god is there sitting in his sphere. The young 
mortal enters the hall of the firmament; there is he alone with them 
alone, they pouring on him benedictions and gifts, and beckoning him 
up to their thrones. On th»: instant, and incessantly, fall snow = storms 
of illusions. He fancies himself in a vast crowd which sways this way 
and tint and whose movement and doings he must obey: he fancies him- 
self poor, orphaned, insignifi-ant. The mad crowd drives hither and 
thither, now furiously commanding this thing to be done, now that. What 
is he ihat he should resist their will, and think or act for himself? Everv| 
moment new changes and new showers of deceptions to baffle and dis- 
tract him. And when, by and by, for an instant, the air clears and the 
cloud lifts a little, there are the gods still sitting around him on their 
thrones --they alone with him alone. 

Ralph Waldo Emerson 




No camellias: 

only turnips and 

sprawling sugar cane listless 

outside the city market. 

by Lee Goodwin 

No public squares: 

just square faces 

of buildings >-, inured to monotony 

as their owners; 

just of shoes, 

rows of shoe*, tiers of shoes, 

and OD raincoats 

rubbing shoulders with 

humbled, second-hand 

blue serge; 

just angles 

af children's thin arms 

and of bargaining faces. 

Xo color: 

jxcept gray: 

>rick gray, smoke gray from the river, 

ind reds by Coca-Cola. 

No antiquity 

but the too-recent 

and timeless desire lurching 

to second floors. 

No beauty 

save of the moment: 
a sidewalk buck-and-wing 
gay as Negro Saturday, 
lunchroom bop and boogie 
with colored lights, 
ard a chiur beside one's -.hop 
to sit and watch people 
and sunshine. 


The t.lghr. is * 5*r»d calm. The--- L* nothing tut t-lac *- -no 
moon, r.o wii. I i no cold--iuM darkness Everyone is paltered 

in the Ivving took. WSJCteng* When tahc moment comes, ail will rush to 
the windows. T ii . •• . • ti ■ > j t I si - i oy, to be easily put on at the right 
tivne . 

A iaint sound Is :u« J R is a rustling, just barely audible r.t first. 
Now is grows into a \*igui w 1 Istllng. The sounds grow louder ao the 
wind whizzes around the covntrs; the eaves even echo the noise. Slow- 
ly it subsides and becomes a n.-.?~e breeze. The sky is covered with 
little scudding clouds. The morn;: i is ippro*chin,>. Ail await ii 
breathlessly. Someone goes to the w follow to art as sentinel. As he 
is to give the signal, all (ares turn toward him eagerly. Minutes drag 
by like hours; time passes so terribly siov. ; ; . 

But wait- -the sentinel gives a sign. £s he mistaken? No, it's trite, 
it has finally started. The long sief>e has begun. The moment of great 
expectations, so patiently awaited, has row come to pass. All faces 
become animated as everyone rushes to -he windows. They struggle 
into their clothes. Grownups and children alike are equally exrifed. 
The door is thrown open. Everyone rushes out Into the first snow. 

Harriet Krobalski 


I'm th<: co-pilot. I sit on the right; 

I'm not important, just part of the flight. 

I never talk „ack lest. I have regrets, 

But I have to remember what the pilot forgets. 

1 make out the flight plan and study the weather. 
Pull up the id stand by to feather; 

Make out the forms and do the reporting, 
And fly the old crate when the pilot's a-courting 

I take the reading;., adjust the power. 
Handle the flaps .ind call the tow. r, 
Tell him where we -re on the darkest night, 
And do all the book work without any light. 

I call for my pilot and buy him cokes. 

I always laugh at his corny jokes. 

And once in a while when his landings are rusty, 

I come through with. "Gawd but it's gusty." 

All in all I'm a general stooge, 
As I sit on the right of the man I call Scrooge, 
I guess you think that it's past understanding, 
But maybe, some day, he will give me a landing. 

— Bert Meyer 



Sfc d.r^'^y^^ s?Rim QUARTER 





magazine published by and for students of Armstrong 
College of Savannah, Georgia. The use of any per- 
son's name in this magazine in fiction is to be re- 
garded as coincidence. 

Students of Armstrong College are urged to submit 
manuscripts for publication in the MERCURY. All 
contributions will be accepted or rejected by the 

Editor Millicent Melaver 

Associate Editor. Flossie Kerves 

Managing Editor Tony Heffernan 

Artists Eston Perkins 

Bobby Strozier 
Betty Weinberg 
Flossie Kerves 

Photography. Jim Head 

Tony Heffernan 



Plot - Sub Plot Arthur Whitfield 5 

The Waste Basket Henry Coffer 9 

Y ogi Mark Ste adman 12 

Cr abclaw Clifford Clarke 14 

Adrift Clifford Clarke 15 

Maurice and the Rich Old Lady Jerry Sieg 16 

Snapshots 19 

Bubble J. Anthony Heffernan 23 

German Intelligence Report Bylee Hunnicut 28 

Love's Dream ) 

A Starlit Night) Jane Wootton 29 

Essay on Prejudice Robert Rizza 30 

A Little Touch of Heaven Miriam Oglesbee 32 

Leroy's Lament Arthur Whitfield 33 

She Was So Fair Leslie Brown 37 

Headstrong Shopping Mark Ste adman 38 

Rain Flossie Kerves 40 


It is not necessary to delve very 
deeply into the past to trace the 
historical background of the MER- 
CURY; in fact if we only go back 
as far as the fall of 1947 we can 
seethe embryo of the first quarter- 
ly magazine of Armstrong College. 
Since that time the MERCURY has 
increased in size, a new method of 
printing has been adopted, and an 
innovation in the form of a photo- 
graphic cover has made its appear- 
ance through the efforts of Tony 
Heffernan and Jim Head. The pro- 
gress — or lack of it — which the 
MERCURY has made in its two 
years of existence is to be attribut- 
ed to the student body. The stu- 
dents have made the magazine what 
it is today, and they are the main 
factor in seeing that their magazine 
continues to grow and becomes what 
it has the capacity to become — one 
of the best junior college publica- 
tions in the South. This can only 
be achieved by a conscientious ef- 
fort on the part of the students to 
submit material, and to take an 
active interest in their quarterly. 

Judging from some of the mater- 
ial that has been received this quar- 
ter, it seems as though the past 
issues of the MERCURY have in- 
spired some of the students, and 
this is as it should be, for that is 
one of the foremost purposes of 
the quarterly. 

This issue may seem light and 
fanciful; however, Spring, or per- 
haps Summer, is in the air. And 
at Armstrong it seems as if the 
writers' thoughts have turned to 
the fantastic. 

Looking back on the year, it has 
really been a pleasure to work with 
the MERCURY staff, and I should 
like to express my appreciation to 
the members of the staff for their 
splendid cooperation. I should also 
like to thank the contributors, the 
members of the English Depart- 
ment for their invaluable aid in 
securing material, and Miss Har- 
riet Davis and Mr. Hinckley Mur- 
phy in particular, whose guidance, 
sugpestions and criticisms have 
made these issues possible. 





by Arthur Whitfield 

(Author's note. Enough time has elapsed since the end of the 
second world war to allow many former military secrets to be 
divulged to the American public. The Atom bomb prob&bly took 
more honors than any other secret weapon of the war. But the 
following story is not of a weapon such as a bomb, guided mis- 
sile or revolutionary radar set. This is the true story of a 
courageous group of men r board a tiny destroyer in the Pacific 
Ocean find an idea concocted solely by a group of minds aboard 
this infamous can. 

The main points in this story have been related many times 
before. However, I feel qualified to take upon myself the task 
of- making it more public and more informative because of the 
part I played in the strangest 'coup de main' of the ? : ar. I 
have tried to be as accurate in my recollections as possible.) 

The morning of August 13,1942 found the U. S. S.Jac,k Stone wal- 
lowing in the calm of the blue Pacific. Her position was approx- 
imately seven-hundred miles south-southeast of Pearl Harbor; 

the objective, Japanese SubVnarines a threat to inadequately protected 

Allied Shipping lanes. The United States had been at war less than a 
year but had suffered many serious setbacks in the Pacific. Qneofthe 
more serious threats to the Navy in their fight for control of the seas 
was the shrewd tactics of the Jap fleet, put to best advantage by their 
cunning at underwater warfare. Just how many of these "vaporesdia- 
blos" (as the Spanish pearl divers referred to them) were loosed in 
the Pacific was difficult to estimate. It was conceded at the time how- 
ever, that they were present in great numbers because of the smalltime 
element involved in their manufacture and the adaptibility of the Jap- 
anese to underhanded methods of destruction. 


All hands aboard the U. S. S. Jack Stone went to their battle sta- 
tions at three A. M. on that memorable day in the bleak first summer 
of the war. Every member of the crew knew exactly what lurked in the 
dark underwaters, waiting as a cat waits to spring with fury upon 
the unsuspecting enemy. The objective was no secret. In the minds of 
all the men were thoughts of home and dreams of possible pleasure 
cruises in these waters someday as pilots of their own yachts. But 
the situation at hand was foremost in the minds of every sailor. Action 
could be expected at any time now. The pitch in the sonar "pings " 
began to vary, warranting more vigilance on the part of lookouts. This 
was it! 

A Navy captain has never sworn so much as Captain Upin Atimdid 
that day. It was no reflection on the Captain's morals, though. When 
he had given orders to fire the depth charges there had been no response 
to his command other than a weak, nervous voice that came from a 
battle phone at the stern of the ship. "Sorry to report, sir, that every 
depth charge aboard is filled with sand. They're all dummies. Any 
further orders, sir?" 

It was a helluva time to discover that the practice charges had not 
been exchanged for those loaded with T. N. T. before the ship left Pearl 
Harbor. (A terrible oversight on the part of a poor officer who would 
spend the rest of his life avoiding a certain naval captain.) The news 
spread quickly about the"Stone." Despondent conjecture as to the ship's 
fate flooded every conversation. In a conflict with a sub, it was a matter 
of hit first or get hit; the latter was more exciting but more tragic. 

Captain Atim was near baldness from his hair-pulling spree. After 
a few minutes of sheer panic on the bridge, small calm was restored 
by the appearance of a short, frail seaman who was more shy thanfraiL 
He was the closest thing to a skeleton on the ship. 

"Sir, if I may have a word with you?" requested Seaman second — 
class Bash Fuller of the first deck division. 

" Can't you see what's going on? I have no time for petty gripes." 
The old man tore around the bulkheads of the pilot house like a squirrel 
in a cage, hardly noticing the lithe figure of a man in the hatchway. 

"But Captain me and some of the boys in mount two have a solu- 
tion for survival." 

"What? What's that? you're nuts! A stupid seaman telling his 
captain how to survive. .But maybe you've found some loaded charges." 
He stopped his mad prancing and turned to face the messiah. "Have 
you? ' ' 

"No Sir. We've discovered something better. Easier and more 
effective. Even cheaper, Sir." 

The tail end of a smile drew up the captain's face. He fell to a seat 
and uttered a few words in humility. "All right, I'll listen." 

"Well, Sir, Jerry Digesu didn't spill the gravy in that can of paint 
on purpose. But he was afraid to tell anyone because if it ever got back 
to Cox'un Bourke, Jerry would be doing extra duty for weeks." Bash 
thought he was being attacked when Captain Atim jumped up in his face. 

"You've gone Asiatic! What's this nonsense about gravy in a paint 
bucket? This had better be on the level, Fuller, or I'll see to it that 


you never get discharged if ," he gulped quite hard "we get 

through the war." 

"Oh.. yes, Sir. Honest Sir. Anyway, Sir, we didn't know that Jerry 
had spilled the gravy in the paint. You see, he was eating topside on 
the foc'sle last week. It must have been a whole cupful he spilled. So 
we stirred it up a little bit because we thought it was oil on the top and 
painted over a few rusty places around the capstan. The paint didn't 
exactly look blue either like it should have. We threw it away thinking 
it was just some bad paint. Now, me and the boys in mount two have 
come up with our simple little solution. We really thought it over, Sir. 
With a little luck, it might work." 

The conversation lasted for several more minutes. The complete 
shock I received on hearing the rest of it has obliterated most mem- 
ories of Fuller's details. But I do remember the expression on the 
captain's face and the words that slipped from his mouth as he kissed 
little Fuller on the forehead. " Fantastic," he said, "fantastic." 

Seconds later, all cooks were ordered to report to the galley along 
with a twenty man working party from the deck force. In a half hour 
the working party was carrying huge cans of a specially prepared liquid 
to the fantail. The Captain stood alongside Fuller and a few of his bud- 
dies while they took samples to smear on the deck. "O. K.," said one. 
"Yep, it's the same" said another. All the cans were dumped into the 
ocean as the ship swung; in a wide arc to spread the stuff in a greater 
area. Two cooks walking back to the galley were conversing in low 
tones. "The Old Man's cracked. Ten gallons of gravy he mixes with 
perfectly good paint and then throws it overboard." 

As I watched this mysterious mixture pour into the ocean I noticed 
that it blended perfectly with the color of the water. A perfect match. 
Amazing. But the most amazing part was yet to come. For, in a period 
of less than fifteen minutes, a dark object broke through the surface of 
the water about fifty yards astern of us. It did more than surface. It 
left the water completely and ascended about twenty-five feet in the air 
where it hovered a minute then continued to rise. For the first time in 
my life I felt faint. At first I suspected the scorching sun of playing 
tricks with my mind but a loud report from a five-inch gun mount 
assured me that I was not dreaming^. The object from the deep was, as 
you have suspected, a submarine. The anti-aircraft gun had destroyed 
an enemy craft in mid-air. for the next two hours the atmosphere was 
filled with fragments of Japanese subs that had been blasted unmerci- 
fully by our ships guns. As long as the "survival solution" was poured 
into the ocean, the enemy subs would rise into the air. ..only to be blast- 
ed into bits. Thirty-seven were counted by a special detail that had 
been placed in charge of the tally card adorning the side of the bridge. 
An explanation to the fantastic behavior of the Imperial U-Boats is 
quite simple although many have disqualified it because of a certain law 
of gravity; possibly, this actually adds up to the Japanese defiance to 
certain physical laws; if this be the case, their defiance has been justi- 

When a submarine commander would raise his periscope to train 
in on the "Stone," the glass-covered end would come in contact with the 


paint and gravy solution on the surface of the water. The solution, 
being the same color of the sea, would adhere to the glass so that the 
commander would think his sub was still under H2O and NaCl .'Conse- 
quently, the sub would continue to ascend while the commander was 
completely ignorant as to his position (which was, exactly thirty-seven 
times,out of the water). 

The miracle of the Japanese 'diving-planes' would be enough to 
make this a tribute to their engineering abilities but it could hardly be 
considered if we accept the only theory explaining just why a sub com- 
mander could not tell what the depth of his boat was. The theory is 
stated thus: "If the depth gauges of any given submarine are not work- 
ing properly, due to faulty design, imperfect construction or damage 
beyond the shipyard, it will be practically impossible to ascertain the 
depth of this craft (or crafts), assuming that all outside vision is abso- 
lutely obscured." 

Fantastic indeed! But the irony lies in the fact that the simple solu- 
tion of paint and gravy never worked again. Thousands of gallons of 
gravy were made on hundreds of ships but it wasn't the same. No one 
was ever able to make anything to match that fatal solution prepared 
by the cooks aboard the U. S. S. Jack Stone. 

Seaman Fuller and the boys in mount two were decorated immed- 
iately after the war was over at a special ceremony held on the White 
House Lawn. Jerry Digesu was there also, not in want of glory but hid- 
ing from Cox'un Bourke who thought Jerry was still on the west coast. 


by Henry Coffer 

Basket, Basket, on the floor, 
Which writer is the greatest bore? 

What a wretched fate a poet must endure 
As in a comfy chair he tries to make a cure 
For all of mankind's troubles, love, wine, song, and such, 
And thus thinks that 'tis he (poor soul) who lends us all a 

The first crutch (grouch or walking cane) that falls upon 

my eye 
Is the wondrous work of Gertrude Stein (spelled better, 

A noble effort here we see to fix our present ills-- 
A brand new type of poetry in multi-colored pills. 

"Pigeons on the grass alas" (my aching back.) 
"Alas pigeons on the grass pigeons on the crack 
Crack Crack Crack the boys are pigeons on the grass 
Grass, red grass, mardi-grass, oh alas, a lass?" 

Was not that a bolster to our creaking, shaky bones 
All cumbered down with worldly cares of country, wealth, 
and homes ? 

But Gertie's not the only one who has a remedy— 

We've got another ready here, not costly 'cause it's free. 

Now for some nice free verse--lovely verse that won't 

cost anyone a nickel. 
"Ah 'Tis lovely to watch the fox as he fox trots along 

the stair in which 
Old Sue and John are fixing dinner 
With a knitting needle that was made on a genuine lathe 

in the 


Village blacksmith's gentle forge before the advent of 

the fabulous 
Motor car." 

'Tis plain to see it's wonderful to find such verse for 

'Tis also plain (I trust) to see it courts reality-- 
It courts it in a loving way with an eternal flame 
Of blazing words, matched sentences, and more and more 

of same. 
We've yet to see the best of all — the intelligentsia: 
The ones who speak in forty tongues and never twist it 

"First we must, je pense, find out at any cost 
The fact that done je suis holds true in summer's icy frost. 

The best logic in solving this is omnis Gallia" 
("Whole gall" in bitter English) "now est divisa 
In partes tres in order, sirs, to make it clear as glass. 
To prove my point, we'll now go back to pigeons on the 

What have you here, waste basket? An interesting thing? 
The poetry of R. Jeffers makes Heaven's joybells ring. 
He loves to play with babies with his Nietzsche Nietzsche 

And offers us a world of men like monkeys in a zoo. 

"So ve hiel, hiel, hiel, For ve is der Super Man; 
Survival of der fittest is observed on every hand. 
But, Let's say we've enough of him (altho' it could not be ) 
And of the great E. Cummings now observe the poetry. 

Now Cummings has a style his own (some people call it Greek) 
When e'er he writes he rambles round with twistings like a 

He writes in perfect grammar--not a comma out of place, 
Not a sentence incomplete we find, no pronouns out of case. 

"oncle,. sammy had a billion bucks 

that helped himr go to 
town**? but gangs O' furners with (©brass knucks 
to beat 
him down, but oncle sammy no 

wasstopped in 
this calamity 

he was" so rich; he. simply 
popped & gave it "way 4 free" 



Wasn't that adorable?-- but wait. What have we here? 
A case of "synaesthesia"--now that's a thing to fear. 
"The rain is crying with the cold — squalling loud and long; 

The thunder's seen in long low cracks like high notes in 
a song." 

Now what could be more simple, more easy, sirs, than that? 
We see the thunder, hear the rain, and taste the pitter- 

(Waste basket nearly empty--there's paper everywhere.) 
A scrap. Ah! It's another one--about a teddy bear. 

"We are the hollow, stuffed bears living in a land 
Of--here we go round the prickly pear--ouch. it pierced 

my hand. 
Now I'm just a hollow bear—my sand has all ebbed out 
So now I only whimper--(no voice with which to shout.) 

This is the way the world ends--the world with all its 

Boo-hoo. Our sand has all leaked out--we're hollow teddy 

The motto here is plain to see; throughout the world it rings: 
It's not a joy for teddy bears to play with prickly things. 

Let's now skip to the greater ones who use the greatest care 
In using words and phrases that they pull down from the air. 
"We have observed quite billow ly the alphabeta beat 
With a sugarbelted island that is rantled round the screet — 

Of course we've seen the fallabacious interwacky shmoo 
Which fillerbates and rowlandrates around a scudahoo." 
Now friends, you can quite easily translate this lovely tale, 
(And anyone who fails the task, of course, will simply fail.) 

Mow we have seen the writers who threw down the Puritan 
And kicked their dust into his face and started having fun. 
Their fun was seen quite easily in this waste paper can, 
The odor of their works so sweet that-- (please hand me a fan.) 

Basket, Basket, on the floor, 

Which writer was the greatest bore? 



LESSON I: (Mental Nothingness) 

It is the aim of the Yogi to achieve complete mental nothingness 
The first step in this is to procure a large hand mirror. Make a 

white dot at some point on the mirror. Hold it directly above 

slightly to the left of, and in a line with, the right eye. Concentrate 
on the dot. Say to yourself, "I am looking at the dot." Thencheck. 

Are you looking at the dot? You aren't? Huummm. Well we'll 

try something else. Buy a box of Wheaties. Eat the Wheaties, then 
recline in a pickle barrel and focus the attention on your left large 
toe. Think to yourself — "I am looking at my left large toe." (In 

case you have lost your left large toe try to borrow one from 

a friend to continue without it is folly.) If while looking at the 

toe, it occurs to you that the nail needs trimming resist the temp- 
tation. Force all thoughts of toe-nail trimming from your mind. If 
this fails too, you must go on to method three. Proceed immedi- 
ately to the Washington Nat'l Monument. Climb to the top, and jump 

off taking care (and this is a very important point ) to land on your 

head. ..You have now achieved complete mental nothingness. 

LESSON II: (Purification) 

The Yogi must purify his body in preparation for the practice of 
becoming nothing. There are three stages — Breathing - Water - Fire 
We shall consider them in the order named. 

BREATHING: -For this you will need a stop watch and a bad or 

Recline on the bed (or couch) with the feet and legs a little 
above, to the left of and directly beneath the navel. Grip the stop 
watch firmly in the left hand. Stop it and lay it on the table. You 



are now ready to start. Take twenty-five (25) deep breaths and hold 
the last one while you recite the first thirteen verses of the "Star 
Spangled Banner" to yourself. (There will be a tendency to exhale 

prematurely — fight it.) After you have done this exhale slowly 

through the left ear taking care that no air leaks out around the 

mouth or nostrils. There. Didn't that feelgood? 

WATER: -For this you will need a large container of water and 
a chair. 

Seat yourself comfortably in the chair - taking care that only 
the shoulders and upper back are touching it. There. Are you all 
seated? Now get up and get the container of water. Pour out the 
water and refill with gin. Resume your seat in the chair. Begin to 
drink the gin. When you feel comfortable and enjoy the position that 
you are in, stop. You have been purified. 

FIRE: -For this you will need an outdoor barbecue pit, a large 
spit, and a few friends. 

Have your friends build a fire in the pit. Help them if youlike. 
When the fire blazes to a height of about three feet — you are ready. 
Quickly have your friends chain you to the spit, then place you over the 
fire. Roast slowly over even heat until slightly brown around the edges, 
baste with catalpha sauce and stuff with onions; serves six. 

LESSON III: (Muscle Control) 

The Yogi must learn to control his muscles. For this you will need 
a kimono, a turban, and a small mat. Put on the kimono and turban... — 
Don't you look swell? Now seat yourself on the mat. Take the right 
ankle firmly in both hands. Raise it diagonally across the body, pass — 
ing it under the left armpit. Now pull it back across the shoulder, under 
the chin, around the neck, and tuck neatly behind the left ear. Repeat 
with right. Let the arms hang limply at the sides. Roll the body over 
until the entire weight comes to bear on the forehead. Having achieved 
this position, you meditate. 

LESSON IV: (Thought Control) 

The Yogi must learn to control his thoughts. It is the purpose of 
all the foregoing to bridge the gap between the living and the dead., 
find out how the other half lives (or dies) so to speak. 

The novice should proceed with caution at first, so as not to get 
himself involved with minor dieties between this world and the next, 
and also to be sure of the direction that he is taking. (A young enthus- 
iast took a left turn at a Solavim when he should have turned right, 
and wound up in a twelve dimensional Solavoid with only ten dimen- 
sional control. It cost him fifteen bucks to get a Junovack to tow him 
home. I trust that he has learned his lesson.) As confidence and pro- 
ficiency are acquired, he may accelerate his pace so as to cover the 
most territory in the least time. 


This, then, is Yogi. If you have faithfully practiced the exercises 
outlined above, you should experience no difficulty in "getting away" 



at the slightest provocation. Just remember to keep posted on the 
intra-voidal traffic laws. They are constantly changing due to the 
great number of spirits making the trip of late. Information maybe 
obtained by contacting one of the medium captains at station Lisjolva. 

by Clifford Clarke 

On the tide-wrinkled sand 
of 'Coon Key, where Wassaw 
water becomes the green 
border 'round Ossabaw, 
was a pincered claw. 

(A claw of the crab that 

vulture of the deep, white 
green and orange-blue 
lover, bold armored knight 
of the black mudflat.) 

Had this gauntlet been lost 
while Launcelot of Low Tide 
was blowing bubbles? Or 
while scurrying beside 
his Lady Guinevere? 

With jointed hammer-sword, 
had this warrior fought and 
bowed in defeat to a 
crusty lord of the sand 
to contend life or love? 

No way to tell how or 
why a slick shell claw 
is here. All along the 
beach are bits from the maw 
of grinding surf and sea. 




by Clifford Clarke 


sun and sea 
sun and sea 

bleaching sun 
shoreless sea 
sun and sea 


sun and sea 

a bleaching sun 
blistering sun 
blinding sun 
...never a shadow 

never a cool shadow 
never a dark cool shadow 

never only 

sun and sea 


sun and sea 

a shoreless sea 
sullen sea 
seething sea 
...never a cairn 

never a restful calm 

never a soothing restful calm 

never only 

sun and sea 

sun and sea 

one again 
two again 
one two three 
...only my god 

only my vengeful god 
only frowning vengeful god 
only — only 
sun and sea. 






by Jerry Sieg 

We boys on the hospital hell cots were considerably worried 
over Maurice's sudden friendship with the Rich Old Lady. She 
was almost a daily visitor, kindly and innocuous, a simple old 
soul without a bad thought in her head. Maurice was as crazy as they 
come — shell-shocked, and completely out of his mind. But, you see, 
the Old Lady didn't know it, and that's what made us anxious. 

The doctor had said there was no hope for that lost intelligence. 
As soon as his broken legs permitted, Maurice would be committed to 
the institution for mental cases on the grounds adjoining the hospital. 
Meantime, there was the Old Lady's growing attachment for him. 

We called her the Rich Old Lady because we couldn't pronounce her 
long, foreign name. She was good to us all. Hardly a day passed that 
she didn't come, bringing fruits, wine, cake, or something delicious to 
the boys who lay suffering on the cots, their bodies wrecked by scream- 
ing implements of war. She would lean over each one, say a few tender 
words, leave her gift and pass on. 

"I love all soldiers," she whispered to me once. "My boy was a 
soldier in the last war. He died for his country." 

I knew then the secret of her tragically empty face. I knew why her 
faded grey eyes wandered about unfocused even when she was speak- 
ing directly to you. People who are fine-strung and sensitive, as she 
certainly was, rarely get over so bitter a shock as the loss of a son in 

She had paid no more attention to Maurice than to the rest of us 
until the day she found him with tears rolling down his face. Often his 
darkened mind seemed to comprehend that it was like a shattered lan- 
tern or a guttered candle. Then he would sit for hours in a brooding 
silence, with tears making slow tracks down his thin cheeks. On those 
days we pitied the boy. 

When the Old Lady saw the tears, her motherly heart went out to 
Maurice. She talked to him and comforted him. Although the rest of 
us couldn't hear what she was saying, her soft voice seemed to calm 
and soothe his spirit. In a few days they were close friends and con- 
fidants. We listened to them laughing and whispering in the corner; yes, 
and often weeping together. She told him of her son who had been dark- 


UR : 

eyed and tall like Maurice. He told of his dreams; recited tales of 

school years; made plans for a future. 

The devil of it all was that after she was gone, he would lie there 
and laugh softly to himself and say to us that the old woman was a fool. 
"Silly old simpering idiot, " he would muse, "did you notice how she 
took in everything I told her?" 

Poor old lady: She believed everything he said. Finally, one day 
he spoke of his aging parents who in their declining years had to toil for 
existence, since their only son lay broken by war on a hospital bed. The 
old woman wept and promised to help him all she could. We all felt un- 
comfortable at her being so deceived, for we knew that Maurice's only 
relative was a cousin in the United States. But when she was gone he 
only lay there laughing like a wicked child. 

His unhinged mind worked swiftly in this deviltry. The very next 
afternoon he told her that a message had come bearing news of the death 
of both parents. Quietly he lay brooding at the wall. He let himself cry 
a little. He moaned that it was breaking his heart not to have seen his 
old parents before they died. 

The distressed Old Lady stroked his head. His eyes grew cunning 
under her gentle hand while he hid a smile, and for half an hour the two 
of them whispered together in the corner; then their voices grew excited 
although still hushed. The rest of us wondered what was up. 

Suddenly the Rich Old Lady rose and turned to the other cots, face 
beaming, near-sighted eyes turning from one to the other of us withtheii 
unfocused gaze. 

"Boys", she cried, "I lost my son. But now I have another. Dear 
Maurice. He will be my boy. I want you to be the first to know." 

We were all too astonished to say much. When she departed shortly 
after, Maurice lay back and chuckled. 

"Old fool;" he laughed in a whisper. 

The next moment he reared up on the cot, black rage in his eyes, 
face purple. He shook his fists and burst into uncontrollable fury. 

"They think I'm crazy," he shrieked. "In my sleep I've heard them 
plotting to lock me up. Away from the world? Away from life! But I've 
fooled them. She's going to take me with her. She's going to make them 
give me into her care as her son. Then I'll get away. I'll live again. 
Do you hear? I'll live!" 

We didn't watch the poor kid. He finally grew quiet. When the doctor 
passed through the ward about an hour later, Maurice was asleep, ex- 

I called the doctor and told him the whole story. I couldn't see the 
little Old Lady that gentle little soul so taken in. It was danger- 

The doctor was a jolly man. He smiled. 

"Don't worry, son. Nothing's going to come of it. Even if the hos- 
pital permitted such a thing, she isn't able to do it." 

"But she's rich. We know that." 

"Yeah, she's rich. And her executors meet all her little demands 
such as giving you boys goodies. But she's non compas mentis for all 



her money." 

I questioned him with my startled look. 

"Thought you would have guessed that long ago," he said lightly... 
"She comes from 'next door' where Maurice'll be going soon. Harm- 
less, but completely insane. Haven't you noticed that she can't even 
focus her eyes?" 


Like Father, Like Son 
Candid picture proves Murphy's thesis. 

Physical and chemical exhibits amuse guests. 

m ^ 


it i 
1 ' 

ill ! 

Psychological exhibit establishes capacity of student minds. 
Home economics fascinates female guests 

Spring comes to Armstrong 
Faculty goes wild 



by J. Anthony Heffernan 

The Barracuda had been cruising with all hands at battle stations 
for thirty-six hours in anticipation of encountering the Japan- 
ese task force reportedly approaching the Phillippine Islands. 
Code radio messages commanded the "Cuda" to avoid smaller enemy 
vessels and concentrate all efforts toward the destruction of larger 
vessels, to weave our way through the defending cordon of ships with- 
out being perceived. . .if possible. 

On the thirty-sixth hour, we discovered our prey. The weird con- 
voy of silent forms looked,at four miles, like a funeral column. Each 
man stepped to the periscope for one quick look at the grey-funneled 
islands of steel, while the "Old Man" was calculating strategy, and men 
still had time to breathe in the sweaty stench of that bubble in the ocean. 

A hearse-like battle-wagon stood out like a sore thumb; the skipper 
ordered engines silenced. It was decided that we should lay in com- 
plete inertia as the parade of death marched directly toward us. 

I was checking the torpedo carriages up forward, and closed the 
water-tight hatch as I entered the tube compartment. Asking myself 
why any man in his right mind should be in the middle of the Pacific 
Ocean beneath fourteen feet of salt water, I leaned over to examine the 
insulation of a wire and everything blew up in my face. 

The concussion of the explosion pitched my bending body against the 
forward bulkhead and everything went blank. When I opened my eyes, 
the pulsations in the head I once knew were a combination of a broken 
diesel engine with a background of discordant pile drivers and my heart 
playing bass drum on my ears. I looked down at the watch which had 
been bought six weeks previously in a ship's store in Pearl Harbor. 
Finding it completely smashed, it was dropped to the blood-red deck. 
(I remember no reaction of remorse). The man, who had been looking 
over my shoulder, lay with his face on my foot; my leg was covered with 
a red ooze. I had a sense of being outside of myself . ..looking back... 
my leg was examined before discovering that I was unhurt except for 


bruises, and that my shipmate had been instantly killed by the edge of 
the now impacted pressure gauge which his head stove in. Other than 
the splitting headache and stiffness that soon manifested itself in the 
small of my back, no further complications were had before reaching 
the intercom phone. The mute intercommunications accepted myscrearr 
and conducted nothing. Since no idea of the passage of minutes or hours 
after the shrieking jolt was to be had, time meant nothing. There was 
no voice to be heard, only the metallic grinding from the hull which my 
hysterical loneliness amplified. 

The Navy's instructor at New London had attempted to teach the 
various ways one might escape death in submarine mishaps; as a typical 
sailor all which did not seem to apply to me was ignored. The use of 
a Davis rescue apparatus was completely foreign to me, but that didn't 
matter. I had never thought to put one in the compartment. There was 
just a Mae West, a lantern and a desire to live. 

It was conjecture to determine the reason for my misfortune. We 
had not seen any ship within a mile, and our radar and sonar hadn't 
given any warning of impending danger. My imagination ran rampant 

and the possibilities of having been dive bombed, rammed and torpe- 
does accidently detonated were all plausable. 

A wrench from the floor made a strong hammer and I rapped on the 
hull to signal the surviving, if any, of my existence. It seemed an eter- 
nity but I waited for an answer before beating more frantically on the 
metal wall. The only sounds my ears perceived were the ones made 
by my hands. When exhaustion finally set me down, my hands were 
masses of red, bloody fingers. Could the chance of opening the main 
hatch be taken? Why were the lights still on? Would waiting be fruit- 
less? I lay back and fell into a partial sleep. 

Awakening shortly with the thumping in my head replaced by a dis- 
tant buzz., my eyes were blurred; the realization of being smothered 
by carbon dioxide overcame me with fright. Any frantic movement would 
merely make it sooner. A decision had to be made between a sure death 
from my own exhalations and the possibility of opening the overhead 
hatch and floating to the surface. The divers light on the bulkhead was 
waterproof and I decided that it could make a useful signaling device. 
The hatch was opened slightly with little effort and water quickly 
covered the lower half of the compartment. . .my ears popped. The 
wheel was screwed tight for one last look in the fast dimming light then 
the hatch wao spun open and my inflated life jacket threw me to the 
surface. Never have I experienced such pain as was encountered when 
my lungs almost burst and my ears rang with the pitch of a siren. 

The ascent to the surface was so rapid that it must have been less 
than forty feet, but my fears were multiplied. . .1 couldn't see... though 
the salt water and pressure might have blinded me. When my sudden 
frustration had somewhat subsided, the lantern, which was held in my 
hand, was placed on my chest as a beacon and turned on to serve as a 
rescue beacon. 

One can imagine the astounding shock felt when it was realized that 
fate had not blinded me but had projected me into an atmosphere of 
nothingness. . .absolute darkness in mid-day. This couldn't be. isn't 



real. ..just a bad dream. The muscles in my legs became taut from the 
chilled water which had lost its warmth due to the absence of sunlight. 
Chattering teeth convinced my imagination that some secret weapon 
had precluded the world's future by throwing earth from its solar orbit. 
(Bobbing dejectedly in the black ocean your author became aware of 
some object which seemed to be floating but on closer observation 
appeared to be a rocky beach of gray pebbles} My purpling feet trod 
in complete resignation to what in all probability should have been 
an island. A large table-like rock made a comfortable bed for my body 
which seemed entirely too tired, considering the short swim to the 
shore. I couldn't catch my breath. The lantern sat at my feet, brightly 
illuminating my wet spirits whose loneliness was kept at bay by the 
presence of its light. If nature were going to freeze me to death, it was 
certainly odd that what was once the sky still radiated heat so that the 
earth was warmed to a comfortable degree. Heavy lids pulled my eyes 

When again my eyes opened, my clothes were completely dry and 
my ears popped as if still under pressure. I reached to retrieve the 
lantern (the island having yet to be explored) and almost perished from 
fright. There... with his belly on the rocky shore lay a man with his 
face pressed against the glass of the burning light. It was not the 
presence of a man( although I thought most men dead), but the appear - 
ance of a perfect albino man who had no ears, eyes, or hair and who 
wore no clothes. 

He remained motionless as I stood up and did not show any reaction 
to the many vibrations caused by my feet upon the loose rocks at the 
foot of my slab. The albino lay in his moth-like position until, out of 
curiosity, I turned off the lantern, and he disappeared as silently as 
he must have arrived. 

The lantern was again turned on and my search began with the quest 
for food of primary importance. Unusual as it seemed, the island was 
of comfortable temperature and had a musty odor, the reason for which 
was soon enough discovered. I called aloud, "Hello! Can anyone hear 
me?" Rockslides came in answer and echoes reiterated. It seemed 
that luck had cast me into a canyon or valley of some kind. With the 
light in hand, the bare path easy to walk, I made my way along the shore 
following the trim band of small stones which composed the beach. For 
the first time it was noticed that there was no tidal mark at the edge of 
where the water stood. Strange. ..every island of this vicinity I had ever 
seen before had tides. ..not even a ripple much less a surf. The air was 
deathly still. Suddenly my plight was made tragically acute by the pres- 
ence of a stone wall which extended to either side as far as I could see 
in the rays of the nearsighted light. On the edge of the still water I 
looked out into the darkness for some hope of by-passing the great bar- 
rier and finding none, turned to follow the wall inland. Then I saw 
them... they were approaching at a drunken, half walking-half stumbling 
gait.. .the same type of creature as the first which had been attracted 
to the lantern. I began to run in fear; all hunger was forgotten as my 
blind flight threw me headlong over a rock which would have broken 
several ribs had not my life jacket intervened. The lantern lay on its 



side unbroken and illuminated the stone ceiling of my imprisoning 
CAVE. ..the vast extent of which could not be determined. 

My once potential coffin, the "Barracuda", must have come to rest 
on a shelf below the mouth of that water enclosed cave which may once 
have been a natural sanctuary against worldly wrath for the inhabitants 
of a now extinct , unchartered island. The ocean must have engulfed 
the below level mouth and sealed these creatures within the cave under 
the great pressure resisted only by the captured air. Oxygen must 
have been restored by the many reeds and grasses that grow in the 
large lake. 

Those horrible people crowded about the lantern before I could re- 
gain my feet and sat motionless as if passively warming themselves 
by a campfire. They neither talked nor communicated in any way as 
each brutally jostled the other in seating. The weird ensemble was 
mostly composed of men, there being only three women accompanied 
by three dog-like animals which were held in their laps as they sat. 
Like the man I had seen, the women and animals were albinos who had 
no eyes, ears or hair. The most eerie effect was produced by the pink 
luminescence which the animals emanated, and it was the examination 
of this quality which led me to discover that they were miniature ponies. 
My foot was accidentally placed on a woman's hand but she made no 
comment in any way but merely pulled her bleeding fingers from under 
my shoe with my full ■weight crushing them to the rock ground.. .Their 
mute reactions to various stimuli amazed me. ..The only thing of which 
these creatures were aware was that they were deprived of light... the 
dog-like ponies were not even conscious of that and showed indifference 
to light and everything else. 

To see the reaction, I shrouded the scene in its usual blackness and 
stood in the center for several seconds until that odd crew arose and 
began to shuffle noisily off; I joined in to follow in anticipation of find- 
ing subsistence and of learning the nature of the inhabitants. They 
walked in a general direction but to my observance, no single leader 
was predominant... it seemed that everyone knew the shortest route to 
the location that everyone had as a destination. ..Common understanding 
without communication. The ground was flat and bare and would have 
been very simple to walk upon in darkness had not the albinos treaded 
so erratically. I stumbled blindly over legs and feet as the staggering 
individuals bumped into me and each other. The journey must have 
lasted five minutes (to tell the time in total darkness is so very inac- 
curate) and we turned for the first time as what appeared to be a rock 
shelf was reached. As we ascended, the shelf showed itself to be the 
first of many great steps, hewn from glassy stone and covered to a depth 
of several inches with sand and rocky earth. Our assemblage began to 

mount the stairs which were at least sixteen inches high just high 

enough to make the climb strenuous. It is unusual that men construct 
stairs of such size as to be quite impractical as a comfortable utility. 
We struggled up the stairway until I thought that everyone would soon 
collapse of exhaustion; sounds of a pounding and grinding of stone upon 
stone came to me from above and the wearying climb ceased. The wide 



stair was littered debris that made my stand feel quite precarious, 

not knowing what might happen should the footing give way. I turned 
on the lantern., .there all about me were at least fifty albinos. . .all dig- 
ging. . .upward. Men pounding the ceiling with large stones ceased to 
work and turned to the light in less than 5 seconds. The switch clicked 
as my hand pressed against it in fear that any jostling might dislodge 
me from my stand atop the stairway. 

In the total darkness, the sounds resumed and a mound of earth be- 
came a waiting bench as I decided to fix myself comfortably until such 
time as those weird creatures were to eat. The ground was much dam- 
per than at lower levels and the moist sand was not uncomfortable. If 
only the nerve-wracking cadence of the excavation had ceased. Before 
my mind kept flashing blow-ups and cut-outs of the scene last seen in 
the light. Those diggers. . .Why were there so few women and no chil- 
dren? In what deep recesses were the women and children kept, if there 
were such things? If there were, why were they not possessed by that 
incessant compulsion light ? 

Though it seemed like weeks to my stomach, I must have waited less 
than 2 hours when some new noise penetrated the din of the stairmakers 
lair... A hiss which seemed to increase in volume with every impact of 
the stones. Before many seconds had elapsed, the hiss had multiplied 
to an alarming degree so that I jumped to my feet and clicked on the 
light to discover complete justification of my fears. In the roof I saw 
a crack which ran diagonally to the middle where it exploded into many 
tributaries.. .The ceiling began to break into many jagged triangles of 
stone; the hiss ran to a whistling wind which blew sand and and small 
rocks about in the atmosphere. Rising wind from the stair blew pebbles 
that struck my legs with sling shot velocity. After reaching hurricane 
proportions the wind pushed me from my feet as one of the albinos was 
sucked into the abyss which appeared in the ceiling. I fell in the direc- 
tion of the farthest wall still clutching my lantern and lost sight of all 
the individuals in the room amid the flying dust and debris. ..groping in 
the confusion for a hold on the rocky floor. Stinging sand filled my eyes 
as a strong gust filled the room and tore the lantern from my hand, lift- 
ing me from the floor. I felt myself carried up and suspended in mid- 
air, then wavering for a second; the rocky edge of the overhead chasm 
struck me from behind. Frantically my hand held to it, only to be jerked 
free. Head over heels the giant suction carried me, whence I dared not 
think until a roaring snap threw me over backwards and I felt myself 
being drawn down., .falling. My eyes opened and saw less than ten feet 
before the sprawling expanse of beautiful green-blue water. The Pacific 
Ocean collided with me and was as welcome as land to a sea sick sailor. 
It washed the sand from my eyes and joyously bobbed me to the sur- 
face where wonderful fresh air awaited. The glare of spacious blue 
sky temporarily blinded my dark accustomed sight. I shielded my 
eyes as they were opened and saw a great column of froth breaking 
the sea. The geyser steamed some sixty feet high and threw rocks 
amid its bubbles. Bobbing safely, some hundred feet distant, I saw 
one albino - balanced on the crest of the froth then dashed backward 
to the surface where a pillar of small rocks and water pounded him 



so that he didn't reach the surface again. 

My life jacket supported my floating body as flying foam billowed 
through the air. A hoarse call issued from behind and I turned in the 
water to see a choking albino shaking a clenched fist and shouting 
blindly at the hot Pacific sun. .. shouting. . .shouting. . .crying out in dis- 
may. . .defying the rays of the sun, so long sought. . .gasping helplessly 
in the comparatively rarified atmosphere. Could they only communi- 
cate or speak when they had seen the sun? 

He swam in circles for several minutes, sometimes toward me, 
then away, so that my attempts to reach him were in vain; he began 
to sink, still thrashing about in the sea which sealed him in its depths 
...left in his stead small bubbles which scudded a short distance with 
the wind, then burst, removing the last trace of these unusual stone 
age beings from the known earth. 


Ich bin ein wonderban institutioner at Armstrongen Collegen called 
der University Savannah. Das bin ein schoolen mit grosser instructions 
mit mathematics und physik (atomic bomben) und English coursen. 
Das schoolen staifen outgaben mit der grosser success schemens for 
der studenters to liven by. 

Der instructors bin conducten der classes mit grosser scowlen und 
gloomer pussen. Der studenters bin mouser-quieten mit necken- 
squirmen und sitten soker straighten. 

Das courser bin ein grosser ratten racen. Der instructors bin 
gepacen uppen-downen und der studenters iss snorten rnit poo-pooen. 
Der instructor iss haben ein brainen-stormen und dismissen der Clas- 

Das iss wonderban institutioner und iss outputen der grosser 

Das schoolen iss gehaben der grosser trainer aidens. By usen der 
chartsen und pictures und grosser voicen-raisen, das instructor iss 
keepen der studenters from sleepen. 

Ich bin gecomen der der timen for der graduaten und all der stu- 
denters bin up geliven to haben der picture getaken und huffen-puffen 
und stacken smoken to maken classen to make der passen grade. 

Mit nicen diplomas der studenters iss gecomen to the beach mit 
break-nechen speeden. 

Bylee Hunnicut 




by Jane Wootton 

Hidden in time's sand 
For me there is the joy 
That I will find a man 
That is not a little boy. 

When love does come to me 
It will not creep or steal 
With only one glance I will see 
At last a love that's real. 

There is no one who can compare 
With this perfect dream of mine 
So I'll save my love for him to share 
In the richer life we'll find. 

If he comes, this one so dear 
Who is only now a fantasy 
This is what I sorely fear: 
Will he have need of me? 


Once upon a starlit night 
I sat alone upon the shore 
And gazed with rapt delight 
As I listened to the ocean roar. 

A summer breeze softly stirred 
Two lovers passed me by 
The only sound that I heard 
Was the echo of a sigh. 

I saw the lights of distant ships 
As I strolled along the sand 
I heard the plea of unknown lips 
Calling from a foreign land. 

I didn't care where they were bound 
Or when they would return 
I dreamed of excitement 
And how my heart did yearn. 

The ships light was but a dot 
That blinked far out at sea 
So, alas, it was my lot 
They didn't wait for me. 




by Robert Rizza 

illustrated by Bobby Strozier 

A ",hort time ago I found myself in a park Walking immediately 
behind me was a young negro boy. He was approximately ten years 
old, eleven at the most. A dark smiling face was topped by the short 
curly hair typical of his race. To complete this air of happiness, he 
was whistling. A group of white youths of the same age approached 
from the opposite direction. They seemed average, and one of the 
group carried a baseball bat, another a ball. To all intents, they were 
a group of boys who had just finished an exciting ball game. 

As they drew near, it was also plain that they were arguing over 
some vague baseball rule, probably over an incident that occurred 
in their game. 



One of the youngest of the white group noticed the young negro and 
said to his companions, "I'll prove that I am right." Turning to the 
young negro the boy said, "Hey buddy, would the batter be put out if 

This was far as the question was discussed before he was cut short 
by the biggest of his group. "Come on Joe, leave that black ■ nig- 
ger alone. " 

One can imagine the stunned, hurt look on the once smiling negro 
face. Can you imagine the fear that clutched the nature of the young 
colored boy? Fear of being set upon by the now hostile group. 

That one remark created a wound in that child's mind. A wound 
that might heal with time and care, but more likely it created a viru- 
lent wound that would remain a burning malignant thing that will fester 
until it is broken open by its own bitter pressure. The result of such 
an attack might result in some retaliation against the white race, or 
at best, one that will pave the way for future injury. 

You can recall such incidents which were completely unprovoked. 
Maybe you yourself have also shouted, "NIGGER, NIGGER," at some 
colored boy. Where does this feeling come from? Surely it is not an 
inate quality. Children do not have prejudices unless injected by adults 
who believe that they are being mature. 

The greatest racial and religious tolerance should be taught in the 
home. With little patience and understanding, this problem can be over- 
come, and perhaps, a greater problem can be avoided. To better under- 
stand the problems of the negro imagine yourself in his status. Try to 
imagine how it is to be oppressed, looked down upon, and humiliated 
from birth until death. Ask yourself why anyone dislikes the negro, and 
subtract from those reasons the ills resulting from an economic sys- 
tem, dominated by immature whites, and man's false ego. Perhaps 
then you can have some sympathy for any oppressed people, or perhaps 
you are too full of resentment to even see the trouble that can be caused 
by unbridled feelings. 


That Los Angeles County in California has more beautiful women per 
square foot than any other county in the country? 

That there are only two pigeons in captivity that are people-toed? 

That there are some stones that will gather moss while rolling? 



by Miriam Oglesbee 

Two angels stood at the assembly gate; 
Two angels quite young and fair. 
And ha/ided slips with an air sedate 
To the crowds on the heavenly stair. 

"There are plenty of seats for those who are late' 
The M. C. stood up and said. 

He forgot the "mike" chord - (how sad to relate) 
And Mr. G. fell heels over head. 

My lands, who is that angel over there? 

I've never seen such a creature. 

He' winking at the crowds on the heavenly stair. 

Why that's my old teacher - Mr. Beecher. 

I see Miss Morris has come here to stay. 
I'll bet they miss her at school. 
Alas was the day when she passed away; 
She drowned in the "Y. W." pool. 

There's Mr. Murphy with his halo so round. 
Be quiet, he's fixing to stand. 
The whole high heavens will soon resound 
With some scores from his hillbilly band. 

Mr. Howard is seated by Mrs. Strong. 

And HEAVENS , are they a sight. 

His accent, she says, is all so wrong. 

But her phonetics will help him speak right. 

I know that man who's beginning to speak. 
He's telling us to lend an ear. 
His name is Hawes and he says he's surprised 
To see that we all made it here. 

Our days down on earth have long past away. 
We have died and are now far up high. 
It's nice to have this assembly today; 
It reminds me of days long gone by. 





by Arthur Whitfield 

A stirring dramatization of life in a small town; with 
special emphasis on grammatical mischief 

Homespun, Georgia, sprawled itself lazily over the flat country- 
side, nestling cozily at the foot of, nay, slightly to the left of the 
largest peach-bearingest tree in Allshotte County; that is, if you 
were standing in the court house square and aiming your spurt of tobacco 
juice at Decatur. And if you were to stand in the same place, with or 
without the same tobacco juice, aim in the general direction of Savannah, 
you would find it on a clear day, slightly to the right of this colossal 
Amygdalus persica. 

The seat of Allshotte County was a typical small town: small, 
friendly with one eyebrow slightly raised, small, dusty, partially sober, 
absolutely Democrat, small, incorporated since 1921. As most small 
towns were born, so was Homespun. History sadly tells us that it was 
hatched about forty or fifty sherriffs ago under Taurus. The Bull. 
From an industrial point of view its main crop was peaches; from an 
economic point of view its main crop was corn, about a thousand gallons 

a week. And if you care about its overall raison d'etre completely 


A small town can never be more important or ambitious than the 
people who pay its taxes. Homespun was never important or ambitious. 
One reason was Leroy Smith, the only man in town who could name a 
Republican president at the age of fifteen. Leroy was always intelligent, 
although intelligence alone did not pave the way to his honorable position 
of class valedictorian which he played so well. He was kind, lovable and 
Leroy. "Rolling stones gather no moss;""A penny saved is a penny 
earned, ""All that glitters is not moonshine." This hodge-podge of 
degenerate philosophical advice was the power that drove the pistons of 
his existence, the aesthetic stimuli wedged between his heart and soul 
by the hammers of small town environment. The only reason from 
which one could deduce that he was a small town boy was the fact that he 
was from a small town. The "straight and narrow" was his thorough- 
fare in life. No sin inspired wind could force him into the wayside of 
evil. But Leroy never intended to vow himself to a matrimonial mate. 
It happened before he could realize the magic and destructive force of 
the words, " I do." He married Gladys. Their marriage might be ex- 



posed under the light of an unintentional adventure, or, involuntary 
manslaughter, as the tribunal would refer to it. The ceremony was a 
simple affair, quietly consummated in the rear of Hardy's Grocery 
Store. A church marriage had been impossible because of the old- 
fashioned revival that had stayed on for weeks. A satisfactory termi- 
nation had not been reached due to difficulties ensued in reviving many 
of the heretic element who had gone to be "saved" on refreshment 
night. But the church was in the same block as the grocery store, 
thereby rendering some degree of sanctity to the neighborhood; the 
location of Beth's Bar and Pop's Poolroom notwithstanding. 

Nothing unusual highlighted their entrance into the nuptial state 
except for the absence of a witness; not that the details demanded com- 
passionate or legal observation. Henry Wortle, officially designated 
witness, had fallen asleep unfolding the intriguing mystery of a cross- 
word puzzle while horizontally situated in a barber's chair. 

The absence of love from the marriage, although not unusual, 
should be emphasized here. After the noose was tightened by Rev. 
Brown, Leroy and Gladys discovered, fortunately, that love wasn't the 
main factor in their unification. In fact, they didn't really know what 
it was. Even on their honeymoon Leroy found that his first love had 
suddenly become a dull, uninteresting game. Had he married a poor 
checker player? An answer was suppressed within his mind by a fear 
of sudden despair. His marriage was no dream, but the real thing. 

Gladys had her problems too. Somewhere in her heart she harbor- 
ed a potential desire for Leroy. But would it last? Had she married 
him because he was the only working man in town? Ugly thought. 

Although Leroy wasn't handsome, his disposition toward her had 
always been as sweet and gentle as the bleat of a new-born lamb, 
trapped in a burning barn. She would learn to love him as time went on. 
Leroy thought too that he could overlook her little faults and through 
the occurence of due events she might "grow" on him. Their silent 
reasonings transpired simultaneously. Thus their extreme weariness 
after the thirteenth checker game of their wedding night. 

Leroy went to bed very contented in spite of his problems. He had 
won twelve of the thirteen games. The last had been a draw. 

After three weeks of married life Leroy crawled from bed one 
morning in an unusual mood. His back ached, his head throbbed, his 
joints creaked. Rain, cold and disgust added a score of wrinkles to his 
bed creased face. There had been seven weeks drought before his 
marriage, but now it had been raining since seven minutes after his 
marriage. He could no longer stand the incessant poanding of water on 
the roof. There must be some significance he thought as he scanned 
the pages of the Scriptures, the Farmer's Almanac and the Sear's and 
Roebuck Catalog, searching for a reason for the deluge. He found no 
sacred decree in any of these canons proclaiming rain for so long a 
period after anyone's betrothal. It was after Gladys awoke that he dis- 



covered the source of the downfall. 

"Leroy, fetch a newspaper out the closet and stick it in the crack 
in that window," she had bellowed out to him when the wind began to 
rattle the window steadily enough to annoy her. As he tore off a portion 
of the front page from a three week's old Atlanta Constitution, his half- 
opened eyes fell upon the following: 

"Rain - followed by heavy drizzles - 
followed by extreme precipitation 
for next month or so 

So this was the reason. Some screwball in Atlanta says it's going 
to rain for a spell, so it does. Leroy' s trust in his fellow man took a 
dive in stock value upon his learning this. Well, he could get used to 
the rain. In fact, he reasoned, a man could get used to anything. Then 
he glanced over at Gladys with her mess of hair in her face and changed 
his mind. Anything except No, he had not learned to love Gladys. 

He stood gazing out the window into the dull, grey, morbid overcast. 
Between the earthquake tremors in his mind he pictured his boyhood 
days in Homespun; the good old days when he was twice as happy, three 
times as young and four times as stupid. Could this be the climax of a 
life once enchanted by the quiet beauty of spring and the lazy excitement 
of a summer morn? 

His reverie was suddenly washed into the sea of actuality. His eyes 
penetrated the wall of rain and perceived a litter of small pigs coming 
up the street, slowly followed by a sow of bathtub proportions. Immedi- 
ately he thought of Gladys. Then he thought of the pigs and Gladys . 
There were the pigs out in the cold rain. Here were he and Gladys in a 
comfortable house. Yet the pigs were happier. Why? Leroy pondered 
the situation. His jaw hung so low he had double chins on his chest. 
Suddenly, he turned toward Gladys. He was struck by an idea with the 
force of a jug of home-brew. 

"Gladys," he announced, "I've got it!" 

"You deserve it," she exclaimed, quietly rolling over in bed so as 
to keep from looking at him. 

"No, no," he cried, running over to the bed. 

"Not that. I mean I know how we can live together and be happy 
even though we aren't," he gulped, "in love." 

Uladys jumped out of bed. She threw her fingers on his neck and scream 
ed, "tell me, tell me or I'll squeeze your head plumb off your body." 
Leroy had little reason to disbelieve her. 

"Lemme breathe. Lemme breathe," he screamed, his face turning 
red and his eyes preparing to abandon sockets. She released the grip 
on his throat and threw him down on the floor, placing a firm foot on 
his stomach. He lay on his back, panting, regaining his breath, then 
spoke. "I figured that since neither one of us had any love for the 
other, there wasn't gonna be any love in the house; and if there ain't 
gonna be no love in the house, it's gonna be a rainy day whether the 
sun's shining or not." 

Gladys removed her foot from his chest and allowed him to sit in 
a chair. Leroy had started her to thinking. She thought. 



"But still I don't see " she started. 

"Let me tell you " he interrupted.. "What we been needing 

is something we can both love. That way we'll have love in the house 
and then happiness. 

Gladys' face lit up like a liquor still on fire. In the next minute 
her arms were flung around him, now caressing with joy. "You mean 

a baby?" she said. 

Leroy choked up and gulped a few times. He blushed down to his 
feet. She looked at him with wide, anxious eyes. "Uh, well, Leroy 

stuttered "I didn't mean anything that would take over two weeks 

getting here, and a baby would take more than two weeks wouldn't 

it?" The question hit her ears and stopped. Leroy was right. She 
had to admit it. But where did the answer lie? She was afraid to 

Leroy got up and walked over to the window again. His words came 
in a quiet, slow voice. "I know something that we can get right now,-- 
if we hurry." He hardly finished his words before he ran out the front 
door, barely noticing that it was closed. In about the time it takes to 
put a tractor in gear, Leroy returned. Under his arm he carried one of 
the pigs that had strayed from the litter. His boyish grin met the light 
in her eyes. 

"Leroy," she whispered in a tone that carried affection. Leroy 
moved closer so as to afford Gladys a more intimate view of their 
future happiness. There was silence. For a few minutes these love- 
starved creatures sat looking at each other. Then they smiled. Leroy 
had done it. Harmony would reign henceforth. It no longer mattered 
how poorly Gladys could play checkers. With the speed of a falling 
peach, the sun melted away the clouds, brightening the dreary surround- 
ings. Leroy reached out his hand and layed it on the pig's head, where 
upon Gladys gently placed her hand. They always knew that they would 
find love sooner or later in a pig's eye. 





by Leslie Browne' 

All alone unwanted now 
I sit beneath the twisted bough 
And sing a song of beauty fair 
Of laughing eyes and golden hair. 

The silken tresses... 

The flimsy dresses... 

The soft caresses... 

My mind possesses. 
She's far away across the Sea 
And never shall return to me. 
And yet her praises now I sing, 
And think of her with the coming spring. 

Her small sweet face... 

A bit of lace. .. 

Her angels' grace... 

Now.... empty space. 
The Sea of Life is too well paid 
With the tender soul of my own sweet maid 
Who never shall my old age bless 
With loving care and tenderness. 

A form so fair. . . 

A love so rare. . . 

A love to share... 

But now despair. 



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by Flossie Kerves 

Cold rain beats down 

On roofs of town. 

With tapping beat 

Of endless feet 

The chilly columns fall. 

The ceaseless hum 
Of bright drops come 
Straight down to meet 
The glistening sheet 
Of long red roof and wall. 

The day is grey 

And wet winds spray 

And blow fine mists 

On roofs--Sharp fists 

With drenched tin madly brawl. 

Sad windows weep 

Long tears that creep 

In crazy streams 

Like tangled dreams 

And runny patterns small. 

The clear long threads 

With glistening heads 

In march time pound 

With steady sound 

And down black tree trunks crawl. 

They never stop, 
But slowly drop 
Til clouds are dry 
And cease to cry. 
Then, that is all--is all. 



- -H 

— V. 

n r 



Looking from within, there doesn't appear to be any signifi 
movement in the creative writing field at Armstrong College. This 

lenced by the long list of guest contributors. It is depressing to 
know that the editors of The Mercury had to dig through other school 
publications and write to former students in a search for material. 

According to original policies, The Mercury was intended to be a 
magazine by the students as well as for the students of Armstrong Col- 
lege. Of course the apparent lack of interest is to be considered a nat- 
ural dilemma and, perhaps, will some day be trampled down under 
the weight of a sincere horde of student writers. In the meantime 
there should be no outright reprimand directed at the school or the 
student body, for talent doesn't arise out of a threat or an insult. 
But talent can be born out of encouragement and practice How can a 
student ever discover whether or not he is kernrlcd with the art uni 
he-makes an attempt at it? The Mercury is intended primarily as a 
channel for the outlet of the creative efforts of the student — not the 
attainment of a devoted clan of readers of non-professional literature. 

Certainly it is> better to be a good reader than a bad writer; but 
a bad writer will, in time, become a good reader if nothing else, 
thereby making more discriminating his literary perception. 

If The Mercury has not improved in content, it has improved in 
appearance. But we should not consider the magazine's mechanics in 
our assessment. The Vacationers would have the same literary value 
(or lack of it) whether published on wrapping I embroidered in 

Irish Linen. Nevertheless, there most be some attempt made to please 
those who would look at a magazine, thuml isly through the 

pages and declare the beauty or ugliness without having read a word. 

In the future, possibly a larger enrollment would aid tremendously 
in raising th<- position of the quarterly to thai of a prominent publica- 
tion. At this tii Mercury is only an extra-curricular incidental, 
mildly holding the interest of a few students who, we can only h< 
will not be the drought of student word-power and the 
inescapable tortures of impending deadlin. 



Published Quarterly 




Savannah, Georgia 


Volume 1 

December, 1949 

Number 1 

Arthur Whitfield 

Joan Landy 
Millard Shepherd 
Marianne Boblasky 
Harriet Krobalski 
John Matthews 
Aubrey Hayes 
William O'Hayer 

James Head 


John W. Aldridge 3 

CYCLE (Poem) 

Clifford Clarke 6 


John Matthews 7 

Clifford Clarke 10 


Anne Crolly 11 


Aubrey L. Hayes, Jr. 13 

Mark Steadman 14 


Joan de Beilby 16 

WORDS (Poem) 

Bill O'Hayer 20 

Marianne Boblasky 21 


G. I. Cann 22 


By John W. Aldridge 

To those who charge that certain portions of Letter From California 
must be interpreted as a direct and malicious attack upon every artist 
and poet now living in the state, the writer can only reply that this 
could hardly have been his intention. He attempted, rather, to fashion 
out of the elements of many personalities a single composite portrait 
which would have the validity of a fictional character (of containing 
more significant traits than an actual person could possibly contain) 
and which would serve as a representation of a specific type — the Group 
or Coterie Poet. If, indeed, the writer had a reforming purpose, it 
was to separate the falsity of the poseur from the genuine endeavor 
of the sincere artist. And it is extremely doubtful whether the talented 
people now doing creative work in California, most of whom feel no 
need for pose, disguise nor the incestuous support of any Group, will 
be able to find any similarity whatsoever between themselves and The 
Poet of the Letter. 

Four writers who were to be represented in this issue (Occident) 
chose to make this comparison, however, and decided to withdraw 
their manuscripts from publication. It was presumably their belief that 
since the obviously uncomplimentary portrait of The Poet seemed 
universalized, our readers would be tempted to identify them, along 
with other California poets, with the caricature. The Editors, while 
they question the validity of such reasoning, are, nevertheless, of the 
opinion that without the work of these writers this issue of The Occident 
is less truly representative of the quality of literary material now being 
written on this campus. 

J. W. A. 

Here it is warm and the sun is bitterly bright on the stucco surfaces 
of the world. There is no escape from the sun here. It leaves no 
shadows in the corners, does nothing to the blood. It is hard like a 
single metal eye. It moves across the sky without blinking. When night 
comes and the awnings are taken down from the windows, it is gone. 
One suspects that it has been taken down too. 

When there is rain, it comes without passion or wind. It brings 
no thunder or lightning, no hope of snow. Walking in the rain is as 
pointless as standing under a cold shower with all one's clothes on. 

The sky has a look of vacant optimism. There is nothing behind 
it. Its blackness is cancelled. The tops of the hills that touch it are 
empty of trees. In the winter they are covered with thin grass. By 
the middle of summer they are burned brown and the grass is crisp 
and dead. The few trees that grow in the valleys have bark that 
hangs in loose shreds from their trunks. The scattered palms seem 

transplanted. Their naked reeds sprout like primordial nightmares in 
front lawns and along neighborhood streets. They have nothing to do 
with their surroundings. They could be dug up and their roots set in 
pots and no one would notice. They, like the sun, are props that 
can be taken down at night 

Under this sun and this sky the people bake and shrivel. They 
lie in the sun on weekend beaches and read the funny papers and think 
about sex and babies or next year's new car. Under the sun their 
bodies are made holy. It is their spiritual substitute for God. The 
rays of the sun supply all the vitamins not found in the neon sign. 
In this eternal brightness where all values wither and fade before mass 
worship of physical well-being, it becomes extremely important to get 
a tan, to keep the front lawn trimmed and watered, the car polished 
and the house filled with Mexican pottery. When these are done, there 
are only the bars and movies, juke boxes and rodeos, airplane rides and 
dog races, Christian Science and Tom Breneman. 

The average man is muscular and athletic. He plays golf and 
tennis and has lived in the woods of Yosemite. He is conscientious, 
a good mixer, popular with women and a lover of open-toed sandals. 
He drives a new car and believes passionately in it He believes also 
in the sanctity of the home, the dignity of labor, the efficacy of 
prayer, the importance of being earnest and the inviolable perfection 
of the State of California. Otherwise he doesn't believe in much of 
anything. His mind is a clutter of distorted facts, strong prejudice, 
fears, vague yearnings, nonsense and ill-formed impressions. He is 
utterly devoid of ideas, but can express an opinion on anything. He 
does his work in a small hot office in a tall white building and when 
he goes out to lunch he wears dark glasses and hopes people will take 
him for Tyrone Power. He spends his evenings in his front lawn 
pruning and snipping at the grass. After the sun goes down, he turns 
the sprinkler on and lets it run all night for fear the whole lawn will 
dry up and die before morning. A little after dawn he gets out of bed, 
puts on sport shirt and slacks and goes to work on the hedge, rose 
bushes and grass. At five minutes to eight he begins to feel faint, goes 
in to breakfast, has coffee and toast, kisses his wife and drives off in his 
car to the office. 

His wife is left in the house with nothing to do. She is usually 
pregnant and has to take it easy. If she has had a child, it is probably 
five years old and ruthless. By ten o'clock it will have littered the 
living room rug with bits of broken doll's legs, scraps of paper torn 
from magazines and pieces of broken bottle. It will stubbornly refuse 
to go play outdoors even though the sun is shining insipidly in the sky 
and the street is a blaze of white concrete. Instead it will squat in the 
middle of the floor and scream out the contents of its despair or hold 
its breath until its face turns purple. Meanwhile, the wife will have 
changed into a pair of shorts and a halter and gone out on the back 
lawn to lie in the sun with her movie magazine and the portable radio. 

She will stay there dreaming about Hollywood and Malibu Beach and 
wondering if she should dye her hair again until the sun drops into 
the Pacific and gloom settles over the acacia tree. She hopes her hus- 
band will not come home, but if he does she starts in on him to take 
her out somewhere. If he consents, they leave the child with neighbors, 
drive downtown, have dinner surrounded by a lot of artificial palms 
and go to a movie where they sit in the loges. Afterwards they have 
a few cocktails at a number of bars done in chromium and glass bricks 
and equipped with Hammond organs that rise periodically out of the 
floor. They drive home at two in the morning feeling slightly tipsy 
and utterly miserable. If the next day is Sunday they stay in bed until 
noon, read the funnies and the magazine supplements and turn on the 
radio for the All-Girl Orchestra because they think they ought to hear 
a little classical music. Late in the afternoon they change into their 
best clothes and go out in the yard to take pictures of the child curtsey- 
ing and grinning among the rose bushes. These they send East to 
snowbound relatives along with a couple of avocados and a frond of 

Under this same sun and sky lives also the artist. Nowhere else 
in the country are there so many artists. Nowhere else is the artist 
so alone. Out of all this, the only milieu he has, he draws only sun- 
shine, neon, stucco and white duck trousers. When he wants to paint 
he is so sickened by what he sees that he daubs frustrated whorls on 
the walls of his bedroom or takes to dope. Most of the time his serious 
work looks like green vomit churned up in a baby-blue urinal, and he 
usually ends up pasting bits cut out of magazines, newspapers, and old 
calendars into geometric designs. His personality is belligerent and 
often offensive because he has to spend every day protesting his identity 
and justifying his own existence. Whatever he does, the sun can 
do better. Reproducing nature in color is out of the question when it 
can be had any time just by going outdoors. 

The Poet is another matter. The Poet is never outdone by nature. 
He has had nothing to do with it for fifty years. The Poet believes 
the world is no place for the delicate sensibility. If he is a Poet who 
writes anything, he refuses to publish it. It suffices that he is known for 
a Poet two blocks in any direction you can name. He reads at the 
home of a friend the few lines of verse that are too good for the jour- 
nals. His disciples sit in a circle at his feet and understand what he 
means. They are cab drivers by day, pimps, janitors, attendants at 
museums and zoos, or live off their wives and have nothing to do with 
the Capitalist scramble. Most of them have unfinished poems of their 
own. Others have unfinished novels or symphonies. These they bring 
around on weekends to read to the Group. Everyone is terribly under- 
standing. They all agree that the stuff is too subtle for publishers and 
editors. That is why the best should be sent to England or France or 
the South of Spain. There, at least, they still talk about Art. 

The trouble with the world, The Poet says, is that there are too 

many tourists and non-poets in the Black Cat for breakfast on Sundays. 
The old places are all becoming too crowded with earnest young women 
learning about Life. There is really not enough air anymore for a Poet 
to breathe. Down the coast a few miles the atmosphere is better. 
There one can live in a cabin and cook beans in their cans over open 
wood fies. There the routine is simple, the soul is free and one gets 
close to the fundamentals of Life and Art. During the forenoon one 
reads under a palm tree and listens to the pound of the surf. Occasion- 
ally one turns a page or reaches for a cracker. At night one drinks 
red wine from a cracked earthenware jug and takes long walks on the 
beach. If friends drop in, one serves them spaghetti and a view of the 
ocean through the broken window. The rest of the time one crouches 
on the floor and meditates while Anna Livia Plurabclle is rendered 
by the author in dialect on the phonograph. What does it matter if the 
artists are painting whorls on the walls of their bedrooms? One has 
escaped with one's soul. What if everything one writes does sound 
like Kenneth Patchen? Who dares to improve on the Golden Boy? 

But the truth really is that The Poet is nothing. Like the sky and the 
sun and the hills and the palms, he is made of tinsel, cardboard and 
lies. Only in this place of lawn fetishes and funny paper minds can 
he grow a beard or go around with marijuana on his breath and be 
taken seriously. Only here where the automobile, the neon sign and the 
chromium-plated crematorium reign supreme can he purchase fame, 
success and the title of Major Poet by paying to have his own verse 
published by the local printer. Only here can his neuroses, tantrums, 
false faces and perversions take the place of genuine talent and some- 
thing to say. 


By Clifford Clarke 

Out of the mud the filth, 

the muck Sat man pondering, 
the filth, 

came man crawling. Into the mud 

the muck 

On the mud the filth, 

the muck returned man striding. 


They Said He Was a Good Joe, But He Was Only 
Stalin For Time 

By John Matthews 

Ah! What peace and contentment it is to spend a quiet evening at 
home after a hard day's work at the pool hall. Settling down into a 
nice comfortable chair, I light my pipe and meditate. My little grand- 
child is curled up on the rug before the fire, while over in the corner 
the dog plays aimlessly with his blocks. I blow a smoke ring and the 
atmosphere becomes nemonic. The dog walks over and mischievously 
chews off the child's ear. Edgar finally awakens. 

"Come here, Edgar, and sit upon old granddad's lap," I call. 

"Oh, no, you don't," he replies. The last time I sat on your lap you 
snitched eight of my marbles." 

"I'm going to tell you a story,"I say. 

"A fairy story?" 

"No," I answer, "I'm going to tell you about some of my experi- 

"That's what I mean. No, thanks. I've got to go. Got a date 
with a sweet dish from the second grade," he gloats. 

Cradling his precious little head beneath the sofa, I begin my weird 
and fantastic tale. 


It was a cold, rainy night in Russia. A ghastly, ghostly gust of 
cold air was blowing in through the hole in the wall. I drew my 
secretary closer about me. I gazed down into her humid eyes. She 
gazed up into my limpid chest. 

"How long can this last, Tondelayo?" I breathed. 

"Ah, Vladimar," she cooed, "each moment is a tingling sensation, 
a sensational tingling, a realized desire, a desired realization, a mount- 
ing glory, a glorious mounting. Soon, I hope." 

A vivid flash of lightning diverted our attention to the shadow at the 
door. Or was it a shadow? Yes, there it was clearly that time. 
But there was more than that. I was certain there was a man at the 
door. I ran to the door with one fell swoop, or swell foop as the case 
may be, and flung it open. There in a ring of glorious radiance stood 
Olaf Swedishkid, the janitor. 

"I yust come by to remind you of your appointment mit der capital- 
ist ambassador," he said through the remnants of a dish of smoorgas- 

"Thank you, Ollie," I replied with the sparkle of wit for which I 
was so well known. He turned and walked determinedly down the hall, 
chuckling into his soft grey beard over that last repartee. 

I donned my raincoat and prepared to strike out to the airport 
where the American missionary or ambassador or whatever you call 
them was supposed to arrive. It was my privilege as a member of 
the commonform to welcome these uneducated capitalists and then give 
them the brushoff in the usual Soviet manner. 

I hailed a taxi and directed the driver to take me to the Molatov 
airport. On the way, we passed many of the famous night spots of 
Moscow. There was Vishinsky's Chinese Theater, Pravda Square, 
Stalin Square Garden, and Metro-Gromyko-Mayer Theater. An inter- 
esting double feature was playing there. Both were animal pictures. 
One was Lassie and the Mystery of the Flying Express, but the feature 
was a horse picture about Friska, the all-Cossack stallion. It seems that 
at the beginning, Friska was trained to be a ballet dancer, but after being 
bitten by a sex-crazed lizard, had gone wild again. Of course, her 
owner, Eddie Arcaroski, still believed that then was some good in 
the horse but the villian, Humphrey Nickelworth and his beautiful 
daughter, Yctta, decided that the horse should be done away with. In 
a dramatic scene near the end, the three cornel the horse under a table 
at the S. and W. cafe. The villian has his gun ready to kill the horse, 
the hero is frantically trying to reconvert the horse, and Yetta, the 
beautiful daughter, is making eyes at the sex-crazed lizard. Suddenly, 
the horse reaehes into his tunic, draws a revolver and methodically 
dispatches the hero, bludgeons the villian, has a brief love scene with 
the girl, and then runs away with the bartender to the Alps. In the 
closing scene, the bartender trips over another sex-crazed lizard and 
plummets down a 10,000-foot cliff to his doom. The horse, in despera- 
tion, travels to Tibet, where in the midst of glorious technicolor, he 
becomes a monk. 


But I digress. 

We arrived at the terminal just in time to see the air giant pull in. 
I watched closely as the line of passengers paraded down the walkway, 
and tried to distinguish an ambassadorial type man. The last person 
to leave caught my eye, but having two of her own, she flung it back into 
my face. She was the most gorgeous blond I have ever seen, cunningly 
dressed in slacks and dinner jacket. 

"My name is Vladimar Pofcough," I ventured, running my fingers 
through the network of woven silk which replaced her hair. 

"My name is Gertrude Freethinking, the free-will ambassador from 
the states," she retorted, at the same time placing the heel of her left 
brogan convincingly in the pit of my stomach. "Where's the vodka and 
the community dancing?" 

"Ah, none of that for us, Gertrude," I breathed. "We shall go 

Later, as we dined and wined, we traded stories of the heroic figures 
of our countries' histories. I told her the legend of the sacred Russian 
cow, how it revolted against the rule of Capitalism and helped bring 
about the consummation of our present government. She told me about 
that great sage of the West, the man who cultivated and perfected the 
growth of the West, the man who personally signed more treaties and 

killed more Indians than anyone else in American history John 


As the evening progressed, our relations grew more intimate and the 
atmosphere more torrid. Stealthily I let my hand creep inside her 
bodice. Deeper and deeper it moved, until finally with a moan of pain 
I withdrew my bleeding paw, cut on the fragments of a broken beer 
bottle. I drew my revolver and shot her thrice through the head. She 
lay there in a growing pool of crimson blood. Stillness! And nothing 
was moving save the dying bubbles of the last highball, rising lazily to 
the top of the glass. Another blow for the government. 


It was a cold dreary day in my lonely post in Siberia, and the salt 
stuck to my fingers as I sifted it from one hand to the other. Luckily, 
one grain of salt happened to hit the secret switch on my Dick Tracy 
ring radio and at last I was in contact with the outside world. Fate was 
indeed on my side now. The first person to pick up my distress signal 
was Petroff Coaldust, an old friend of mine and the conductor on the 
A&P Railroad. We worked out a scheme whereby I could escape while 
on the way to the new educational plays. Every day we, the slaves, jour- 
neyed to town to see the plays which lasted from 12:00 to 12:47Vk- 
I was to walk along the railroad track (which, by coincidence ran by 
the third balcony) and, as the local sped past, I was to ask Petroff how 

he felt. If he replied, "Not so hot," that meant — nix on the escape 
plans. But if he replied "Fair to middlin' ", that was the signal for 
action. It so happened that the fare to Middlin, Russia, was $12.47, 
and the train passed through the theater at approximately that time, 
which was the intermission between the third and last act. 

It went for about three weeks with Petroff always answering "Not so 
good," but one day early in March he appeared with a radiant smile 
playing on his lips. 

"How are you?" I asked. 

"Fair to middlin' " he gasped. 

At precisely 12:47 P. M., according to the prearranged plan, I threw 
myself beneath the wheels of the oncoming local. As the train bore 
down on me I was scooped out of the path of danger by a bum named 
Harris or Benutti, J 2 3 who was riding the rods. 

By this time little Edgar had dropped asleep and his angelic face 
turned a delicate green. Evidently he had enjoyed my tale. So in 
return for my favor, I rummaged through his pockets to get a memento. 

The cheap bum didn't have but $1.42. Enough to take that second- 
grader to the burlesque. Anyway, they know more now than I did 
when I was in the second grade — or do they? 

1. Editor*! Note: Thit does it; thii if rrmirlibly like Max Shulman's work*. Mtttbein, If you 
can't get a atyle of your own, leave the writing butineaa to aomeone elae. 

2. Author's Note: Ha! Your remark was remarkably like that of an idiot. What you know about 
writing could be engraved on a pinhead with a dull shovel. Keep your big yap ahut. 

3. Printer'a Note: If you don't atop this silly arguing. I'm not going to finish printing this damn 
book. Signed: Petroff Coaldust, Printer (Retired Conductor). 

Flow on Past, Ogeechee 

By Clifford Clarke 

Dark tangles of old moss Fingers of a fallen tree 

dangle and ooze down to clutch with futility 

slowly moulder and rot ... . from this watery tomb . . . 

flow on past, Ogeechee. flow on past, Ogeechee. 

The black-robed buzzards wheel And in this dismal world 

mourning the soggy corpse my ever-gnawing wish 

of a drowned razorback .... is to do as she, and .... 

flow on past, Ogeechee. flow on past, Ogeechee. 



By Anne Crolly 

Do you know what it means to earn a living? Perhaps you do — I 
unfortunately did not when I started at Armstrong. I had worked 
before in a law office (my father's) but did not earn a salary, so to 
speak. Oh, yes, I got a pair of shoes (which I would have got regard- 
less) or a new school uniform (an absolute necessity), but I had never 
got an honest-to-goodness pay check — showing $000.3 minus with- 
holding tax and pension. I thought it would be a cinch. I'd set the 
world on fire; spend my vacations in Europe, but my Lincoln Conti- 
nental — but so much for background and daydreams. 

I started to work two weeks after I graduated, on graduation day at 
Armstrong. Need I say more? No one told me a thing except "You'll 
catch on" and I did when registration day fell on me two weeks later. 
How was I supposed to know that the V. A. was omnipotent, that that 
man who stopped in for a few minutes on my first day was the big 
wheel of big wheels of education in Georgia. I thought he was a vet- 
eran student. This day and like registration days were to be my nem- 
esis. Nothing brings on the urge to kill more than to hear tenth quarter 
freshman complain "Registration is always a headache to me." He is 
only one of the 350 I have to give figurative aspirins to. Can you 
imagine his job multiplied 350 times — that's mine. 

Typical questions I smile through (I hope). 

"Do you remember me? I was in here 6 months ago to discuss my 

Do I remember him? Just like I remember the sheik of Araby. 
Unless he committed maim or murder; no, I do not remember his 

"I failed math, chemistry and engineering. Do you think I should 
continue my engineering program?" 

Smile — "I suggest you see a counselor." 

To myself: "Lord help me and keep me safe if I ever travel a 
bridge he's built." 
Typical application 

Name: (unintelligible) 

Date of birth: 1950 (or V. A. date, 1923, Ma's date, 1924, insurance 
date, 1930) 

Schools attended: U. of Ga., 2 weeks 
U. of Fla. 2 months 
State Penn 1 month 


(Usual question to above — "How much credit do I get for that?" 

Married or single: Neither 

And I go on 

Registration is bad but after final exams — 'tis worse. Just think of 
350 students taking approximately 4 subjects. 350 x 4=1400 grades 
I must record after begging and pleading faculty for them. Then, I am 
stopped by an unfamiliar face who asks, "What did 1 get in P. E.?" 
My stock reply is: "Ask your instructor." It is easier to say that than 
explain that 1 have to check 1400 grades to find out what face got in 
P. E. 

Notices that are made out in words of one syllable go the way of 
all 6uch. If six notices are posted on each bulletin board, instructors 
asked to read same in class, hundreds will stop me to ask, "What was 
the notice I heard about?" 

Notices listing names are the same. If a notice says John Jones 
may pick up his pictures in the Registrar's office, it means John Jones 
can get his pictures in the Registrar's office. Nothing more, nothing 
less. That is, unless 350 students are named John Jones. Also, Friday 
afternoon means Friday afternoon. 

Another thing. I love all students, especially those with masculine 
names, but my love fades fast when, if my good luck happens to bring 
me to the beach, movies or Sapphire Room, I run into students who 
scream, "Dear Heavens, what are you doing here?" After all, I still 
have most of my teeth and though my vision is not perfect, I don't as yet 
have to be read to. There are even a few students who are older than I 
(not to mention names). 

Assembly. You'd think I was responsible. I suffered through four 
years of them and I'll tell you Armstrong Assemblies are 100% better 
than ours. We had lectures on the "Ancient Art of Middle India" 
or "Sophocles". I know assembly slips are a bother, but if you knew 
that 99 out of 100 said "Give me two; they're small," what reply 
would you give? Students who try to leave before the program is over 
are taking a chance. Perhaps the student is not one of the unfamiliar 
faces and through my near-sighted eyes I may recognize just that one. 

I love my job. I would not give it up for anything except a ten- 
dollar raise. Don't forget, thirty \rars from now when you send your 
children to Armstrong tell them to look me up. 

Remember everything I do is from the goodness of my heart (No 
comments. I'm not the witch that poisoned Snow White). I could fail 
to send that transcript or forget to mail that report card (you'd be 
happy, huh?) or add a few pink slips. But I don't. At least I try not 
to. Sure, I make mistakes. I'm not the V. A. but e'est la vie! or 
should I say, e'est la guerre! 



I wander alone at eventide 

To the end of the sand 

And the end of the land 

By the side of the Emerald Sea. 

Angry waves, the eternal slaves, 

Pound the never-moving rocks. 

Looking about with thoughtful 

I gaze upon the present guise of 

a tower. 
This crumbled victim of timeless 

Once was built to stay and glower 

By Aubrey L. Hayes, Jr. 

At the endless Emerald Sea. 

It is now a shapeless heap 
Whose stones would forever sleep 
Close by the Emerald Sea. 

The soft, cool breeze blows the 

And coaxes a song from the 
marsh .... 

The home-winging gull sings a 

Goodbye to the new moon loom- 
ing large 

At the end of the Emerald Sea. 



By Mark Steadman 

Thadius Flexwell Tricep heaved 
a great sigh, looked out through 
the shimmering pane where the 
grey slants of rain could be seen 
drowning all humanity in a cloak 
of desolation, and rolled wearily 
out of bed. 

He made his hallowed way to 
the bathroom, mechanically turned 
on the hot water tap, fingered the 
stubble on his chin, and inspected 
his .countenance in the mirror 
God!— he thought— God! What 
a miserable sombitchin wretch 
am I! God! — he thought. 

Twenty-five dreary, desolate 
years of his young manhood had 
he poured into his job — and 
what a thankless return he had 

received for his investment. Twenty-five years of auditing the books of 
Trelis T. Rosebud, the seed magnate, and what had he to show for it? 
Nothing. Not one sombitchin thing did he have to show for it. God! 
what a miserable wretch was he. 

These, and other thoughts of a like nature, flitted through his soggy 
brain as he pruned his hirsute countenance. Sure, sure — he thought — 
he led a normal life. Normal for the time. Normal for the place — but 
God! If he could only get away from the whole tiresome mess. If he 
could only go somewhere and forget — for a little while — what a sorry 
imitation of a man he was. Dare he think? Dare he dream of some 
day quitting this strife — this living death — and going off and starting 
anew? Dare he? 

There in that dingy little bathroom, the shaving cream drying 
upon his cheek, awoke the soul of Thadius Mexwell Tricep. At long 
last the worm turned. An exultant glint flashed in his eye as he rinsed 
off the lather and made his way to the bedroom. 

Now — he thought — now will I do it. Now after all these years 
of pushing a pen I'll do what has been in my heart for so long. I'll 
go away to France — England — Africa — anywhere, and start all over 

Scarce able to check the flood of emotion which welled up within 


him, he took his sock-full of money from the bureau drawer, and 
spread his fortune on the coverlet. One hundred and thirty-seven 
dollars and sixty-nine cents. The fruits of his years of labor. Well, 
it wasn't much — but it was a beginning. 

And so Thadius Flexwell Tricep did just that. That is, he went 
to France, or England, or Africa, and he started all over and made a 
million dollars and came back and bought out the Rosebud Seed 
Empire. Now (as always happens to the good little boys in the Sunday 
School tracts), Trelis T. Rosebud is auditing the books for the Thadius 
F. Tricep Seed Company — and does he hate it! Meanwhile, good ole 
Thad has become the lowest, meanest skunk of a man that ever 
trod the green face of the earth. He lives in a twenty-room suite in the 
Waldorf, smokes five-dollar cigars, and has beautiful girls falling over 
one another in a mad rush to get to him. He has been elected (by a 
recent nation-wide survey) the best dressed man in the nation, the 
nation's most eligible bachelor, and the richest man on the eastern 
seaboard. He has received seventeen honorary degrees from the most 
famous colleges in the land, he has laid more cornerstones and planted 
more trees than can be enumerated in this small space, and he has left 
a fifty-million-dollar endowment to Harvard University — in return for 
which they are changing the name to Tricep Tech next year. All of 
this, and to top it off, rumor has it that the democratic party is going 
to ask him to run for president next year. 

Yes, sir! That little worm turned with a vengeance, and swept the 
land like a plague. But go up to his office someday, and — if you 
can get past the phalanx of secretaries that throng the entrance — look 
in on him sitting in his plush chair, with his feet propped on the desk. 
Go closer, and listen as he mutters to himself under his breath. 
What's that he's saying? "God!" he says, "God! What a miserable 
wretch am I. What a miserable sombitchin wretch am I!" 



By Joan de Beilby 

The Satanists, a group of "literary heretics," (Shelley among them) 
earned for themselves this rather unflattering title by their interpretation 
of Milton's Satan in Paradise Lost. To quote John S. Deikhoff, these 
critics "thought Satan the central figure in the epic and regarded him 
as a thoroughly admirable agent." 

Shelley in his unpublished essay on The Devil and Devils as like- 
wise in his essay on The Defense of Poetry, voices in almost identical 
terms his sympathetic enthusiasm for the leader of the fallen host. In 
the latter essay he says: 

Nothing can exceed the energy and magnificance of the 
character of Satan as expressed in Paradise Lost. It is a mw- 
take to suppose that he could ever have been intended for the 
popular personification of evil 

Shelley goes on to declare Satan a superior moral being, comparable 
to "one who perseveres in some purpose which he has conceived to be 
excellent in spite of adversity and torture." 

That Shelley as spokesman of the Satanists is right in pronouncing 
Milton's characterization of Satan masterly cannot be denied. But his 
interpretation of that characterization is surely open to question. 

Milton's Satan is undoubtedly a magnificent figure, at least in the 
two opening books of the epic. Here the poet shows us that once glori- 
ous seraph, just lately fallen from his high estate, towering "in shape 
and gesture proudly eminent," above his fellow-angels whom he has 
seduced, and who are now sharing his fate. His "original brightness" 
still upon him, he appears "less than Archangel ruined," but the "excess 
of his glory obscured." We hear the thundering rhetoric of his defiant 
speeches against the Almighty, his expressions of independence, hatred, 
vengeance. We hear his battle cry, "I will not serve." Terrified we 
listen to his address, diabolically grand, in which he welcomes his new 
abode, hailing "Horrors, The Infernal World, and Profoundest Hell." 
Fretly he chooses darkness for light, evil for good, hell for heaven." 

It is all terrifically defiant, just the sort of thing that would appeal 
to Shelley, the erratic, who, in his misguided zeal was blinded ("by 
start dust," perhaps, but still blinded) to the true nature of authority. 
For Shelley, Satan was most probably just one more symbol of resist- 
ance to authority as was Prometheus, and by that token, could never 
"ha>'e been intended for the personification of evil." By his sympa- 
thetic statement that "Satan is like one who perseveres in some pur- 
pose which he has conceived to be excellent, in spite of adversity or 
torture," Shelley justifies Satan, and invests him with a nobility 
ob^ iously never intended by Milton. 


Is Satan "like one who perseveres in some purpose which he has 
conceived to be excellent"? Has he "conceived his purpose to be 
excellent?" The best answer to this question can be given by none 
other than Satan himself. He, in fact, does answer it, and by his very 
words denies it. 

In three great soliloquies, that preceding the attempt on Eve in 
Book IV and those preceding the second attempt in Boox IX, we find 
Satan's self-analyses leading to a clear statement of his motives. It is 
at the beginning of the soliloquy in Book IV that he specifically asserts 
the motive for his rebellion. In addition, he admits that his revolt 
was guilty and groundless. Groundless, because he is God's creature. 

Ah wherefore! He deserved no such return 
From me, whom he created what I was 
In that bright eminence, 

(Book IV, 42-44) 

His rebellion is groundless, too, again by his very own statement, 
because God's treatment of His creatures was good: 

and with his good 
Upbraided none; nor was his service hard. 
What could be less then to afford him praise, 
The easiest recompence and pay him thanks, 
How due! 

(Book IV, 45-58). 

Even the burden of gratitude Satan admits to have been illusory, unreal, 
rising simply from his lack of it. 

Forgetful what from him I still received, 
And understood not that a grateful mind 
By owing owes not, but still pays, at once 
Indebted and discharged; what burden then? 

(Book IV, 54-57) 

Escape from self-conviction blocked in that direction, Satan turns to 
the very magnitude of God's gifts to him as an individual, basing his 
temptation on his own exalted position in heaven. 

had his powerful destiny ordained 

Me some inferior Angel, I had stood 

Then happie; no unbounded hope had raised 


(Book IV, 58-61) 

But this escape is denied him, too. Since he was followed in his fall 
by his inferiors, he might (inferior himself) have followed some 
other power as great, like himself aspiring. 


some other Power 
Might have aspired, and me though mean 
Drawn to his part; but other poivers as great 
Fell not, but stand unshaken, from within 
Or from without, to all temptations arm'd. 

(Book IV, 61-65) 

Thus is he brought inevitably to the ultimate question of responsi- 
bility, addressing it to himself: "Hadst thou the same free Will and 
Power to stand?" The answer is immediate: 

Thou hadst; whom hast thou then or what to accuse 

But Heav'ns free Love dealt equally to all? 

Be then his Love accurst, since love or hate, 

To me alike, it deals eternal woe. 

Nay curs'd be thou; since against his thy will 

Chose freely what it now so justly rues. 

This last passionate attempt at self-deception fails like the others. There 
remains no hope but in repentance; 

O then at last relent: is there no place 
Left for Repentance, none for Pardon left? 

(Book IV, 79-80) 

That question also carries its own answer. Satan recognizes that pardon 
is possible only in terms of real repentance, that is, by submission, 
from which he is debarred by "disdain," by fear of humiliation before 
the spirits who followed him in revolt, seduced 

With other promises and other vaunts 
Then to submit, boasting I could subdue 
Th' Omnipotent. 

(Book IV, 84-86) 

Realizing that he is debarred from submission by that very pride 
that wrought his rebellion, he no longer attempts to throw the blame on 
God, but cries out in anguish at his own self-wrought lot: 

Ay me, they little know 
How dearly I abide that boast so vaine, 
Under uhat torments inwardly I groane; 
While they adore me on the Throne of Hell, 
With Diadem and Scepter high ad vane t 
The lower still I fall, oncly supream 
In miser ie; 

(Book IV, 86-92) 

Satan's despair is now inescapable. To it is added envy and con- 
requent reaffirmation of his will to do evil: 


All excluded thus, behold instead 

Of us out-cast, exiled, his new delight, 

Mankind created and for him this world. 

So farewel Hope; and with Hope farwel Fear, 

Farwell Remorse: all good to me is lost; 

Evil be thou my good; by thee at least 

Divided Empire with Heav'ns King I hold 

By thee, and more than half perhaps will r eigne; 

As Man ere long, and this new World shall know. 

(Book IV, 105-113) 

As the soliloquy above precedes Satan's interrupted temptation of 
Eve as she slept, so the temptation in Book IX is preceded by soliloquies 
showing very clearly his hardening in evil. Satan returns to Eden 
at midnight 

now improved 
In meditated fraud and malice, bent 
On Mans destruction, maugre what might hap 
Of heavier on himself, fearless returned. 

(Book IX, 54-57) 

Satan though now definitely changed, and no longer admitting 
God's goodness or his right to rule, nor the benevolence of that rule, 
still cannot delude himself into thinking that his cause is good; nor 
does he hope to find satisfaction in its success. 

But neither here seek I, no nor in Heav'n 

To dwell, unless by maistring Heaven ns Supreame; 

Nor hope to be my self less miserable 

By what I seek, but others to make such 

As I, though thereby to me worse redound. 

To his envy of God and the angels, he adds his envy of man. 
He seeks ill for man even at the inevitable cost to himself. 

Revenge, at first though sweet, 
Bitter ere long back on it self recoiles; 
Let it; I reck not, so it likht well aim'd. 
Since higher I fall short, on him who next 
Provokes my envie, this new Favorite 
Of Heav'n, this Man of Clay, Son of despite, 
Whom us the more to spite his Maker raised 
From dust: spite then ivith that spite is best repaid. 

(Book IX, 171-178) 

That Satan's end is thoroughly evil, and that he himself is thor- 
oughly cognizant of this fact may thus be seen. By his own words 
throughout these torturing self-analyses he stands convicted. He 
assumes full responsibility for the evil that he plans to do, evil that is 
both positive and active, as completely evil as the most active good is 


good. It is deliberate evil. As Woodhull says: 

To be a corrupter of beauty, a foe of love, and the adversary 
of God is his perpetual doom. Indeed, that the curse of evil is continu- 
ance in evil, is the conclusion of Milton's masterly characterization. 


By Bill 

I know the things that make this 

The things we love and call our 

Everything it seems to say, 
Describes our love in every way. 
The things you are, the things 

you'll be, 
Are all the things just meant for 


Your eyes are of the deepest green, 
That in itself makes you a queen. 
The gleam of red that's in your 

It seems to be forever there. 
The things that make me feel like 

Could never be without a kiss. 

In my heart there beats a song, 
A song whose words are much too 

And while it hums and beats away, 
I hunt for words I know will stay. 
I know the words I feel inside, 
But all they do is jump and hide. 

It seems we're always far apart, 
And yet that love stays in our 

But some day soon beneath this 

Our love will blend and wonder 

It seems so far and then so near, 
A love that we should never fear. 

Beneath the sky I sit and dream, 
Of things so dark and yet serene. 
My thoughts are of the highest 


Beyond the hills I dare to climb. 
The while I seem to sit and think, 
This chain of love each thought a 


I hear a noise from high above, 
Caught in a tide that flows with 

The noise grows louder in my ear, 
A noise so fraught and filled with 

These things that seem to hold 

my mind, 
Are things I some day hope to 


Along the way I see a light, 

A light whose glow will hide the 

And when it shines I feel your 

That love that shines from high 

And as it glows your heart glows, 

That glow that brings me home 

to you. 

Along the road there's darkness 

A darkness never known by you. 
And when I find my way again, 
I find these things will never end. 
Unless some day soon you would 

Because I knew I had to leave. 
'Twas on that day I knew to 

This love we found could never 




By Marianne Boblasky 

Good friends are always recommending good magazines. After 
several days searching I finally found the new magazine that Janie 
said was so good. It was several days more before I could find time to 
read it. At last I sat down, gathered a few refreshments around me, 
and opened the cover. 

The first page lay before me. "USE GUMMIE LOTION FOR 
THE HANDS THAT ARE ROUGH." This heads the page that 
shows a huge bottle of that smooth lotion. Next page. Mr. Bubbles, of 
Underwater, Indiana, says: "I DRINK CALVERT'S WHEN I NEED 
PEP." Mr. Bubbles, of course, is a dignified janitor who is definitely 
experienced in that field. 

After reading the first few pages of this magazine I begin to wonder 
if Janie knows what she is talking about. But Janie should know since 
her father is an advertising agent. I figure the next couple of pages 
will be more interesting, so I proceed to thumb through them. "ARE 
OR YOUR MONEY GLADLY REFUNDED." The rest of the page 
is taken up with a picture of a woman bound on all sides. "MIDDLE 


speaking, that is. "MEN, WHY AREN'T WOMEN ATTRACTED TO 

Of course you always run across those touching ads for the whole 
family. For instance, that lovely picture of the whole group seated 
around the table enjoying "PEALITTLE'S POISON PEAS." 




And while I am at it I might as well admit that the last page was the 
best of all. "NOW COMING TO YOU AT A GIVE-AWAY PRICE. . . . 

(no less than five dollars and ninety-five cents) OUR MAGIC CAN 


I closed the book with a general disgust towards the commercial 
world. Then I turned on the radio to listen to a program. Oh, heavens! 
I won't bother to tell you what came on. 



(With the usual apologies to Ring Lardner. The only good arising 
from his death is the fact that he won't have to read this.) 

By G. I. Cann 

If you ever came to our house you would never know that we are the 
vacationing type until time when Pa starts reading all them magazines 
with the pictures of sunny beaches and rolling coasters and Ma says 
we all need a change and I just set about the house saying that I'm 
mighty sick and tired of seeing the same old faces and places about 
home which ain't such a bad place except when vacation times comes, 
which is usually about the middle of July. 

Pa often stated frequently that it takes all the load off the middle 
of the bridge to drop whatever we are doing, which can't ever be 
very much, and go to Florida for a couple of weeks in order to get 
rested up for all the energy we need for telling everybody about our trip 
to Florida by motor. And when Pa does talk about loads on things 
Ma always reminds him if he don't take a few loads off himself she's 
going to vote the straight prohibition ticket next time she has a chance 
to suffrage at the poles. Of course Ma don't ever vote no more on 
acct. of her notions about democracy which she got when the Demo- 
crats bought the franchise on the White House. But she kids Pa just 
the same anyway as he will listen to her preaching about him taking a 
little something or rather and not bringing her any. 

Friends, they's considerable expenses tied up in a vacation trip 
down there when you can't dig up no realtives to sponge off, not that 
we are the spongeing type. We don't need to sponge since we are liv- 
ing off Pa's royalty mone] thej send him every month for inventing a 
tractor carborator that he designed while we were sharecropping with 
the McCleans back in Monroe County which is near Waycross. ' 2 In 
those days and times we couldn't of afforded a trip to Atlanta if they 
was a train what would take you to Alaska for a nickel. 

But nowadays things has changed. We got more chickens living 
in a aluminum coop in back of our house than you could ever count 
up on a blackboard. Wile I mention our house I might proudly state 
that it is located in a fashionable resort section called Bardsley Park 
which really ain't a park but you would think so when you read the 
name and didn't have an explanation to the real setup. 

All the week before the talking about being tired of the same faces 
etc. and the looking at rolling coasters etc. comes to a climax is when 
Pa starts to hinting around Ma that they ain't no end to a woman 
wasting good money on nothing worth what she has paid for it in a 

1 EHitor'i Note: I Ult ratbof >■ unaware that he i» mistaken tn hit diipotitioo of locales. 
2. Author's Note: Evidently the Editor it unaware that he ii an old fool. 


resort town. Ma don't take nothing off him by referring him to the case 
last year where he lost seven dol. because of a man telling him about a 
dog which was supposed to run around a big track with some 
other dogs who was nutty enough to chase after a rabbit that couldn't 
be ate if he was caught which personally I don't think he ever is. 
Friends, I don't think that I am taking sides with the female */£ OI 
my parents as I am only stating what seemed to happen since I was 
in a better position to know what was going on beings as Ma and Pa 
was getting refreshed down the street when Pa's dog was yelping around 
the track with the rest of his pals. 

I guess it ain't no doubt about us causeing our neighbors (who are 
friendly to us on acct. of Pa being a Freemason) to go on a vacation 
too. They are usually away somewhere the first week that we are back 
and I have reason to suspect that it's to give Ma time to forget about 
most of our trip so as they won't have to suffer wile she tells them from 
morning til time for the chickens to go to bed how she was the only 
one in the family not taken with blisters because of her fine skin 
which I will admit is fine too. 

If you want to see us leaveing for Florida you will be there around 
8 a. m. in the morning. That's the time when most of the neighbors 
has got to go to work and us leaveing then makes them think that we 
are regular tourists because Pa don't have to work every morning 
noways and then they feel that we are one up on them since we are head- 
ed off to indulge in fun and frolic which as I stated previously is more 
expensive than having a daybute party for your daughter when she 
has got old enough to receive callers for her hand, if you got a daughter. 

We get all our luggage and sports equipment (which we never 
use but it looks good sticking out of the car window and besides Pa ain't 
a Yale 96 or 32 athaletic) in our 48 Plymouth car and then Pa stalls 
around trying to get the motor started so as some of our neighbors 
who go to work late can frown on us cause they are envius, especially 
Mr. Wriskey who lives two doors and two houses down but is a friend 
of ours since his father was a 32° Freemason back in a previously men- 
tioned county near a previously mentioned town. 

When all the family has got theirselves comfortable in the car and 
Pa decides that all the neighbors has gone to work we roar away to 
the filling station where we get stuck up for gas, oil, air, clean wind- 
shields and roadmaps which personally I don't think is necessary when 
we go to the same place over the same road every year. Pa believes 
in being ready for the road before entering upon same. I believe in 
being ready for the road before entering upon same is the way he 
would put it. 

Mr. Silex who runs the gas station pouts a little bit to let us know 
that he don't approve of us going all the way to Florida and buying 
gas etc. because we generally always give him our trade and Ma says 


in a stout voice that makes me laugh You want we should carry a trailer 
tank full of your gas all the way to Florida? But Mr. Silex keeps 
quiet knowing that Ma has got him beat when it comes to tricky 
thinking. We all laugh as Ma really is the clown in the family as 
you can judge for yourself. 

Pa shells out his do re me to the gas bandit for our auto provisions 
and our friend counts it and says Thank you, still thinking of a way 
to get even at Ma but we drive away before he can say anything and 
Ma wins as usually is the case. 

Wile we are coasting along the highway in the gen. direction of 
Jaxonville Pa states that they ought to be a friendly little riding 
game that we should play just so's to past the time a little faster. 
But Ma being a smart woman and some what of a philossopher reminds 
him that what we don't know about our fair state would fit in the space 
between his brain and his lower plate. So me and Ma decide that they's 
a lot we got to learn about our fair state and now is a good time. The 
way it works is she will tell Pa (who can't look for he has got to keep 
his eyes on the road) about what we are passing in the line of sights and 
try to explain to him what she sees interesting. But we are traveling 
so fast that you can't really tell the mules from the cows which don't 
make no differents anyways because they are both used for the same 
purposes only the cow gives milk and has calves while the mules don't 
give milk and don't have little mules although they got calves which 
is all joking aside. Ma's idear don't work long cause Pa sights a 
restaurant up ahead and desires a strawberry drink and Ma thinks 
we need to have a little taxation to stretch ourselves in the open air 
so our bones won't get cramped although we are a healthy lot. 

We pull up to a station and I says it must be a school close by 
us but it is just a little darkie ringing a bell who is in cahoots with 
the gangster* inside who run the restaurant. When the passing tourists 
hears the bell ringing they think they are at a friendly place of bus. 
and stop to spend their money which thev better keep because the far- 
ther south they go the less lh<\ will get for it. not that all are theives 
in a resort area. Ma kindly asks Pa to save her just a swallow of his 
strawberry drink so ns she can wet her tongue and besides Pa might 
be taken sick with all that gas in his stomach. 

Pa is friendly and talkative with the proprietor until he finds out 
the drink has cost him ten cents when it onlv ought to cost a nickel 
and then Pa tells him in a tactful way that all places on the road south 
of Savannah is tourist traps that would not he bad places to stop if they 
didn't charge twice as much as ordinary places of bus. do. The man 
says You know what yen can do. and Pa says Yes and I would do it 
only I don't want to crowd you. 

(To be continued) ! 2 

1 Editor'* Nnlr: Over my drad body. 

2 Author's Note: Juil *• good • place u toy. 



Letter From California was originally published in the Spring issue 
of Occident, the quarterly publication of the University of California. 
Its author, John Aldridge, was a student there at that time and editor 
of the magazine in which his article was published. Since then he has 
been appointed Lecturer in Literary Criticism at the University of 

When his piece was published there arose on the West Coast a 
heated controversy involving certain "fundamental morals" (evidently 
California morals) with which Mr. Aldridge's satiric point of view 

conflicted. In a letter to the editor of The Mercury he remarked 

"The piece caused much excitement out there, although at the moment 
the original issues seem rather remote and unimportant." Perhaps 
he is right. However we feel that his Letter From. California would be 
as fresh as a fresh daisy when published in Georgia. 

Mr. Aldridge has been the author of numerous articles appearing 
in The Saturday Revieiv of Literature, Harper's and The New Republic. 
His book on the new writers will be published in the Fall of 1950. 

Mr. Mark Steadman, who has contributed so much to the success 
of The Mercury in the past, could not stay away in this issue. He has, 
at our request, donated several excerpts from his scrapbook of quips 
and comments on life in general. Currently he is enrolled as a history 
major at Emory University. Concerning his works he states that The 
Mercury is his only claim to fame. 

Out of the office of the Registrar has come a delightful expose' of 
what goes on between the Registrar's office and the students. The 
author is Miss Anne K. Crolly who is the Assistant Registrar. Her wit 
and sarcasm best reveal the unknown comedy always going on in the 
vicinity of her "respected" (?) desk. 

Miss Crolly graduated from Ursuline College in New Orleans with a 
B. A. degree in English and Journalism. She was at one time editor 
of The Camelot, quarterly of Ursuline. After her graduation she. had 
planned on working for a newspaper but soon changed her mind in 
favor of a job that would pay off in money. 

No further comment is necessary. We feel that her article is, in 
a sense, autobiographical enough. 

Joan de Beilby was a student at Ursuline College when Miss Crolly 
was student editor. Miss de Beilby's frank criticism of Shelley and his 
"literary heretic" friends' praise of Milton's Satan appeared in The 

She graduated from Ursuline cum laude and is now enrolled as a 
law student at Tulane University. 

Poems by Clifford Clarke have been read widely by Armstrong 
students in the past issues of The Mercury. His excellent taste and his 
convincing presentation of them makes his poetry appeal to all those 
of the three "accepted" brow levels. 

He entered Emory University this Fall. He was an honor graduate 
from Armstrong last Spring. 


Hinckeley Murphy 

Anne K. Crolly 

H. L. Kayton 

Dr. David Robinson 

Mrs. Charles Fitzsimraons 

Rev. Msgr. T. James McNamara 

Sheriff William Harris 

Mrs. P. H. Paddison 

Joseph A. Mendel 

Bill O'Hayer 
Mr. Paul Kulick 
Dr. Howard J. Morrison 
Harry R. Friedman 
Mrs. Lois Cannon 
Mrs. Leo Kay 
Marshall L. Morgan 
Mrs. James W. Jenkins 
B. I. Friedman 

Millard Shepherd 


w # 





94 § £ 

1 "^h 


/y niKiieiJiiY 





Love on a Greyhound Bus Mark Steadman 1 

Rags, Snails and Puppy Dogs' Tails Ann Brown 6 

Discussion Class — Best for Possible Worlds? H. Murphy 7 

Snapshots 14 

The Music Goes Round and Round Arthur Whitfield 18 

Win, Lose or Draw Bert Meyer 19 

Afterthoughts Clifford Clarke ZZ 

The Poole Sharke Robert Long 25 

She'd Been Through It All Before Mark Steadman 26 

Mike's Destiny J. Anthony Heffernan 27 


THE ARMSTRONG MERCURY is a quarterly magazine published by 
and for students of Armstrong College of Savannah, Georgia. The 
use of any person's name in this magazine in fiction is to be re- 
garded as coincidence. 

Students of Armstrong College are urged to submit manuscripts for 
publication in the Mercury. All contributions will be accepted or 
rejected by the editor. 

Editor. Millie ent Me lave r 

Associate Editor Flossie Kerves 

Managing Editor Tony Heffernan 

Artists Eston Perkins 

Bob Strozier 

Photography David Bergrin 

Typist Ruth Allen 


(or It Was Sad When That Great Ship Went Down.) 


Mark Steadman 

Elvira gazed around her dingy apartment. It wasn't large. It wasn't 
clean. It wasn't tidy. It wasn't. . .Elvira sloped wearily over to the 
window and looked out. Not much to see this time of night. The 
brick wall of the tenement next door was unusually forbidding. How 
many times had she sat trying to unsnarl the mystery of those bricks? 

The night noises were beginning again. Just as they had begun ever 
since she could remember. Little things had come to haunt her rev- 
eries. The plummeting body of Mr. Schultz as he fell out of the win- 
dow above her made no impression. (That is, it made no impression 
on her. It made quite an impression on the sidewalk below.) A child 
being stepped on by a dray horse, a sewer explosion, a gang killing, 
could not disturb the reverie of this strange woman. 

A small voice brought her back to reality. "Hey ma! When ya' goin' 
out? I'm hongry, ma!" 

Her poor little boy, Ludette! What she wouldn't give to be able to 
shower him with all the little playthings that he wanted. Tenderly, 
lovingly, she threw a pot of boiling water into the wide-eyed counten- 
ance of the charming child. "Shaddup," she cooed sweetly. 

Ludette looked at her askance for a moment, then resumed his play 
with the roaches. What a sordid life the child was leading. Could she 
only take him away from all of this. What she needed was a man—a 
good man, or if not a good man - a bad man - any kind of man would 
do. Elvira was a bitter woman. Her charm had been of no avail to 
her. Sin and hardship had wrecked her once attractive figure. At a 
height of nine feet five inches she weighed thirty pounds. She was 
thin. She was bow-legged. She was buck-toothed. She was crosseyed. 
In spite of all this men found her unattractive. 

Ah! if only Jack would come back to her. Jack, her first her - her 
true love. In fact, her only love. Theirs was a beautiful but tragic love 
story. She had found Jack in a speakeasy during prohibition. Tempo- 
rarily blinded by love and bathtub gin, he had proposed to her. She had 
asked for a little time to consider. Five shots later she had consented, 
and they were married quietly in the Salvation Army headquarters. Two 
weeks later Jack's sight had returned to him and he had left her in the 
lurch. Night and day she had prayed that he would be blinded again. 
In fact she had even contemplated tending to it herself. She was checked 
by the feeling that he might hold it against her, however, and had de- 
cided to wait for nature to take its course. Sooner or later he would 
come back to her. It was inevitable. But was it? Four years had 
already passed, and now Ludette needed the care and guidance of a 
father. He was doing all right in his adolescent way, but he needed the 
polish and finesse that only a father could teach him. Oh! why wouldn't 


Jack go blind? 

As Elvira sat in the window, she could hear the voices of the little 
street urchins as they chose sides for their nightly gang fights. The 
whole neighborhood had taken an interest in these miniature battles. 
Some had even offered pecuniary aid - giving them money to buy their 
little razors, machine guns, and hand grenades. Two of the little 
devils passed beneath her window, carrying a vat of acid, and whis- 
pering excitedly about their projected campaign for the night. Elvira 
smiled at their boyish enthusiasm. But such diversion couldn't last - 
soon she had slipped back into her reverie. 

She could not sit idle for long. Soon she must be going out into the 
street - the street. How shehad come to hate it. But what was left for 


her to do? Well, there were a lot of things that she could have done. 
She could have gotten a job in a factory or a ten cent store--if she 
could have stayed sober long enough to keep it. Since this was im- 
possible, she must go out onto the street. She faced the mirror, and 
went to work on her hair. After trying this way and that, she finally 
decided to pull it over to the right side of her head, thereby cunningly 
concealing her right ear. That was her bad ear. Once, when someone 
had asked her to lend an ear, she had taken him seriously and had 
twisted it halfway off before he could stop her. They rushed her im- 
mediately to a nearby hospital where a cross-eyed intern had sewed 
it on upside down. After she had raked it into position, she secured 
it with hat pins - sunk into her head. 

Slowly she turned to see little Ludette still playing with the roaches. 


The mother instinct welled up within her. She reached down to caress 
him. Mistaking her intent, Ludette brained her with a beer bottle. Not 
knowing how to cope with the situation, Elvira picked him up and flung 
him against the wall. Her ruse worked. She picked up the limp body, 
dumped it in her footlocker and swallowed the key. 

The dimly lighted hallway oppressed her. She was startled by a 
tenant who lurched through the entrance, lurched past her, and lurched 
into his room. The presence of the drunk seemed to bring her back to 
reality. Suddenly she felt that she must get out onto the street - the 
odors of the tenement nauseated her. Quickly she walked down the hall 
and out the entrance. Once on the street, she desired to go back into 
the tenement again. The China Doll beckoned, however, and its call 
was not to be denied. 

Wearily she made her way down the street. It was getting colder. 
Chills ran up and down her spine - she would have to put a back in her 
dress now that the cold weather had arrived. She pulled the newspaper 
closer about her shivering shoulders. Soon she would be forced to buy 
a new edition to keep from freezing. How would she afford the teriffic 
expense? Never mind-there would be a way. 

Anon she reached the China Doll. How bright and inviting it looked. 
True, it was but a hole in the wall, but she had come to love it with a 
tender, glowing love. Gently, she rolled the stone away from the 
entrance, walked across the suspension bridge, circumnavigated the 
alligator pit, gave the secret knock, was admitted - blindfolded - and 
led through the stygian passageways, was unblindfolded, picked her way 
through the maze, arrived at the moat, shot a flaming arrow through the 
window, and walked across the drawbridge. Ah! the China Doll! How 
earthly and real you were. No one put on airs. It was early and few 
people had arrived as yet. This was unusual - as a rule it was jammed 
to capacity. Ah well! a little peace and quiet would be welcome. 
Dodging the flying bodies and weapons of the gay revelers, she made her 
way to a secluded table. 

The cafe was a favorite trysting place for young lovers, and many 
could be seen in the shadows. Elvira watched the two little lovebirds at 
the next table. It was a tender and sweet love story. The boy, a maso- 
chist, and the girl, a sadist, had fallen in love at first sight. Each night 
they would tryst in this little grotto. A smile spread over Elvira's wan 
face as she watched them showering affection upon each other. The girl 
was beating her lover with a cat o' nine tails, while he screamed with 
ill-concealed emotion. 

But such diversions were not for this embittered woman. Moodily she 
gazed into the depths of her kerosene cocktail. This was a strange 
setting for her thoughts. Someone had dropped a slug in the player pianc 
and the metallic strains of "Ach du Lieber Augustine" fulled the grotto. 
How that song brought back the memories. The picture of a small Sal- 
vation Army Headquarters. The band playing - ah yes! - "Ach du 
Lieber Augustine". That haunting refrain penetrated her brain and 
began galloping around until it bogged down in a sand trap. 

(cont d. on page 16) 



Ann Brown 

"Hey Mom. Me and Mac beat Tommy and Jackie and Richard and 
another boy in football again/ Golleeee/ They sho' can't play half as 
good as us. I made more touchdowns than anybody. That is about 

what you'd hear if you happened to be anywhere within two blocks of 
my house late any afternoon. The speaker (I should say the "shouter'j 
of these words would be my eight-year-old brother, Hal. 

Hal (the mere name brings terror into the hearts of my girl friendsy 
is about seventy-two pounds of the rough and tumble stuff from which 
little boys are made. He considers all females a menace to the human 
race (he'd rather die than be kissed by one) and there are no excep- 
tions to this belief unless of course she can prove her worth by being 
able to throw a mean forward pass or shoot a B.B. gun with the skill 
of Annie Oakley. 

He always manages to track mud in the house, slam every door in 
his path, or leave a handprint on at least one wall to each room. Cap 
pistols, whistles, pieces of string, empty bullet shells, and never less 
than three lucky pieces nearly always fill his pockets. 

A pitiful-looking, flea-bitten hound called Blackir- holds one of the 
highest places in Hal's heart and, up until the present quarantine, 
could be seen at all times tagging along with his young master. Oi 
Blackie was lost for three days and someone who didn't know any bettei 
might well have thought a member of the family had died. 

Except for homework, Hal likes everything about the third grade 

but - when Saturday morning rolls around it is absurd to think of 

anything but "The Adventures of Superman" and three comedies. 

Unless there is a big league baseball or football game in progress, 
our backyard is usually the scene of a major battle. During one such 
conflict, our side discovered that a brand new tude of lipstick made 
beautiful battle wounds, that face powder made an excellent smoke 

screen, and that a bottle of blue stuff 'also from my dressing table) 

labeled "Je Reviens" made a perfect tear gas brmb. At this point I 
shall say only that there was murder in my heart when I was informed 
of this, and that I thought seriously of wringing the neck of one whose 
name I'll not bother to mention again. 

Of course I realize that anyone else with a younger brother goes 
through this the same as I, and I'll have to admit that he's pretty sweet 
most of the time (especially when it comes to things like a bug collec- 
tion for biology). In fact I wouldn't trade him for anything in the 

world But if he loses just one more of my pencils .. 



by H. Murphy 

To most Americans the world seems to grow more complex day by 
day. We yearn for simplicity, even false simplicity. We want our 
children to be like ourselves — education to make the child like the 
father--slightly upholstered. 

This defines what we tolerate in our colleges, and shows one of the 
main friction points between school and society. 

The world grows increasingly afraid of change; it wants schools to 
be anchors, not engines. This is difficult in a world unavoidably 
already different from that which father greeted with fair courage and 
a reasonable certainty that if he would conform to Calvinistic princi- 
ples he could get along, and with luck do better. But now our wars are 
different, bigger, more catastrophic; our machinery is different; our 
institutions vastly larger and more highly organized, our morals 
allegedly worse, except when father brags a little. And our wants are 
nothing short of Eden, gadgets, good jobs (with as little work as pos- 
sible, of course) security, freedom, without in the least questioning 
how all these things can be tied into one neat bundle, and without 
daring to say realistically how enormously far those freedoms are 
already gone, with closed shops a fact in not only the trades, but in the 
professions as well. 

The colleges have long ago put themselves on the side of keeping 
things as they have been, at least in the words we use in thinking about 
them, keeping courses in economics stiffly formal so that principles 
rather than facts are uppermost. Colleges have tended to make facts 
important chiefly in the exact sciences; in the social studies facts are 
dangerous ground, offensive to this and that aggressive pressure group. 
A good case has been made out to show that our reasoning about human 
affairs is poor because our knowledge of facts is poor. Censorship has 
made Hollywood movies absurd, rose-colored visions of never-never 
land. We seem to have the habit of being afraid to face facts squarely, 
and if we are a generous people when we know the facts we are a 
sentimental people when we don't. 

About the only way colleges can maintain the fiction of father's 
world in an era of scientific probing (which has its limitations and is 
well taught so) is to divide the curriculum into little pieces, so that 
students can if they wish, go safely through college without the various 
subjects in any way mingling their wisdoms. In this way education 
can be kept fairly impractical and ineffective, which is what a lot of 
people want it to be.' 

A college might be defined (and likely has been) as a group of people 
seeking learning. All in a college should be learning, sharing, corru— 
paring notes. We far too much ignore the real world in our thinking 
^bou.l the behavior of people and groups in ways that the sciences have 


long since learned to eschew. There is not room enough here to talk 
of how we should get students out into the world and let them see it 
whole and real, the way ancient pedagogs undertook to show students 
about Athens, so large and complex had it become. This is the great 
need--reality in our subject matter, and not reality boiled down or 
interpreted, but simple reality. One can imagine nothing so salutary 
in curing the colossal indifference of some students as a dose of real 
life, with all its tragedy and excitement. 

It is obvious, however, that only a certain amount of effort is going 
to be put into education. It is worth to us only about half or perhaps 
a third of what would be required to make it effective by hiring the 
finest teachers and giving them the equipment they need. How then, 
shall we "make do" in the best possible ways with what we have so 
that we will rear a group of young people able to look reasonably at 
the world and live as human beings can live, reasonably good lives, 
and not as swine grubbing in greedy, selfish mire? This brief article 
is a tyro attempt to inquire into an old method of teaching and 
learning which until recently has been used only by certain private 
colleges of this country. The observations are of my own classes 
rather than of those of my colleagues. It is a method which encour- 
ages, but cannot force students to become active, expressive, partic- 
ipating members in their own education. 

It is not a perfect method; it has its defects; it ir applicable probably 
only to certain areas of the curriculum, and no doubt would be a waste 
of time in those parts of the curriculum which stress fairly exact facts 
in which difference of opinion from the correct process \*. ould be error 
not enrichment. In the college of today, the different areas maintain a 
proud isolation from each other. Few would deny that the sciences 
have pretty well achieved certain kinds of instruction, especially 
in their liberal use of laboratory practical work, which is one of the 
most excellent of school teaching methods. The humanities, on the 
other hand, have been steadily pushed into the background, and are 
lucky if they can get half the equipment which is given the science 
department as a matter of course and necessity. But one doubts 
whether the real goals of the different deparments are wholly different. 
If they were freely discussed--much better understanding could be 

But what do the liberal arts accomplish for the student? 

For we have seen how sciences can make gadgets, but what good is 
beauty in a practical (and hard-drinking) world? And what good are 
words? Everybody knows how much words are worth. They can be 
twisted, they can have double-meanings, and everybody knows that a 
clever word-monger can "prove'" almost anything. We are used to 
words which mean nothing, as in the radio jinr'" having the same 
function as the rhythmic ceremonial dance of tne savage; and words 
which can be "interpreted" to mean almost anything, as in some sec- 
tions of the law. 

Precisely this the humanities might do for the race of man. It might 
make them face words squarely and force them to learn to use them 
with some order and discipline, so that a group of men might be de- 


veloped who are difficult to fool with twisted words, and a group of 
men who could discuss important matters without going in circles, and 
without the discussion degenerating into verbal free-for-alls, the 
pattern for grownups today, in how many matters? Count them. 

Practice in reasoning, in systematic logic, would seem to be of first 
importance to future citizens or they will continue to apply the childish 
reasoning which some of their elders apply to many problems. The 
reason we are so afraid of new war death weapons is that we realize 
that we have not sense enough to control them, or at least not enough 
politicial know-how to get along with others and be sure of them. For 
our potential enemies seem even more primitive in their thinking than 

Language brought us up from the beast and the stones. Yet every- 
where language is held in utter contempt as being the pliable con- 
venience of artful men. The humanities are the only subjects in the 
curriculum (better to say, subject for it should be one) which can 
rummage around in the dusty attic of our social attitudes and thinking 
and maybe bring order out of chaos. The sciences show us the physical 
world very well and with little evasion, and mostly with a noble hu- 
mility before the immense facts of nature which we perceive. But the 
humanities must bring together the sciences and life, and the human- 
ities must go beyond fact-mindedness to aesthetic comprehensions. 
The world of beauty, the concept of many-sided meanings, the power to 
think and reason clearly must be handled by all subjects of the curric- 
ulum. We have made a segmented worm out of colleges-each section 
with its own ganglia; each with possibility of separate (but much in- 
ferior) life. We must restore to education a central tendency, an over- 
all meaning. 

The humanities can provide knowledge of the world of men, the lit- 
erature, the poetic impluses of man, the experience of the beautiful. 
These are the contributions of this area, and those who are too dull to 
understand this should be gently ushered into trade schools, and we 
should abandon the notion of government shared by all. For one can 
see the pitiful inadequacies of ignorant and provincial rulers, who know 
the "price of everything and the value of nothing." 

Dialectic, logic, and philosophy are held in light regard if not out- 
raged contempt by the average student, though the scientific attitude 
(which they claim to respect) is in itself a philosophic attitude, an 
organization of inquiry. 

Men cannot reason and cannot discuss sanely because they have never 
learned how. The average political speech, the usual sales talk, the 
messages of movie and radio, the patter of advertising—all contribute 
to the loss of confidence in words and language and the reasoning which 
must come through them, if it can come. If it does not come, then 
subterfuge and evasion must continue to take their toll of our will and 
ability to believe that man can be anything but a selfish and arrogant 
and bestial creature with power but not beauty, not virtue. 

In the lecture class, the teacher prepares his lecture in such a way 
as to give the student the clearest view of the subject being studied. 



The lecture is highly organized, and is presumed to be the product of 
much thought, selection, editing, with due emphasis and tacit omiss- 
ions. If the student does not understand, he can ask questions. .This 
works well in the subjects predominantly factual, in introductory 
sciences for example. If the teacher has charm, if he knows a great 
deal, and if he has worked conscientiously, the student may get what he 
is ready to understand. What he is not ready to adopt, he cannot in- 
tegrate with his existing ideas. 

The danger exists, of course, that the process may be a one-way 
affair. The ideas go out, the student hears them. He thinks and ac- 
cepts some, rejects some. The teacher learns more from this kind of 
teaching than any student can. For it is the teacher who organizes, 
judges, limits—who points directions—and the student who mainly ac- 
cepts, acquiesces. In some of the more primitive colleges the ideal is 
of a completely "planned" class, with the students clicking in the 
material like receiving stations — arrant nonsense, and with nothing 
human in it. 

Learning is an extremely mysterious and wonderful process which 
people enter into only if they actually need and want to learn. It is not 
a tricky process dependent on shrewd presentation of facts already 
pre-cooked and all but pre-digested. 

If teaching is an excellent way to learn, why not make it possible 
for students to become partly teachers themselves? It is not unheard 

The less favorable picture of the lecture class ought not to obscure 
the fact that much very fine teaching and learning is done mainly 
through this method. It requires effort on the part of the student, how- 
ever, and it is not difficult for a clever student to give back to the 
teacher merely what has been given out, a kind of returning the facts, 
one, two, three, in such a way as to permit the student to remain 
almost entirely outside the process. 

The teacher who talks most of the time can know only so much of 
what the student is thinking, and he can only guess and test to find out 
what his students know. With facts this is fairly easy. But with atti- 
tudes, appreciations, logical applications it is much more recondite. 

It is important that education shall merge with the student's own life, 
that he will not lead an intellectual double life — in class ostensibly 
ravished by the beauty of the poetry, while outside of class he pokes 
fun at the whole process and laughs at the vain efforts of the teacher. 
Meanwhile, the real life, real world of the student is no more than 
grazed by his subjects. He learns "literature" but does not learn to 
enjoy reading. He learns "grammar" but often cannot write an in- 
telligible letter. We have to make the student somehow aware of t 
world of learning, the world of reasoning, of appreciating fine things 
and noble ways. 

Learning is use, comparison, agreement and disagreement with facts 
and ideas: it is expression of what is learned; it is active, not pas- 
sive; it is not pale imitation of the teacher but is an independent, self- 
reliant thing at its best. That teacher is not the best who does the 
most work for his students. 


When classes are thrown "open" to discussion, many things happen. 
The teacher finds out some rather surprising things about his 
students. The teacher takes the position of esteem he deserves aside 
from his authority. Students judge the worth of the teacher in their 
own way, often true, often false. When discussions begin, some 
students begin to talk; others do not. Some wise things and many not- 
so-wise things are said. Discussions sometimes seem interminable 
in their slow progress. 

The teacher finds his students gaining in the courage of their own 
opinions. They dare to disagree, and they are often willing to admit 
they are wrong, sometimes not. Of course this would not be of much 
value in courses which deal mostly in exact, definitive facts, for what 
would be the point in disagreeing? But in the social studies there is 
often room for reasonable differences. Who knows l historical epoch 
so well that he cannot revise a point? Who knows the meaning of 
terms like justice so well that another may not see it differently and 
validly so? But in thinking these things through together, step by step, 
something of enormous value nay be gained — the power to think, to 
weigh, to reserve judgment. 

The discussion must begin after the student has read the lesson with 
attention and diligence so that the entire class comes into the conver- 
sation with a common basis of information about the author's essay. 
Then, after a brief summary, the stimulating questions are asked, and 
comment begins. With opinion, disagreement, comparison, measure- 
ment, application to other cases, application to modern times--differ- 
ences in present-day views are brought out. The past shows the mean- 
ing of the present. 

It is precisely at the point of student preparation that discussion 
classes find their worst difficulty. If students know little or nothing 
about what they read, then their comments can only be of a certain 

Many students do not know how to get much out of their reading. 
They find it very hard to plug away at anything difficult. This is of 
course equally true of lecture classes, and perhaps more than a little 
is caused by them because the student may have learned to depend on 
the lectuie to get what he would not from the book. And the general 
indifference to education of the average person must share responsi- 
bility, too. 

Discussions do fail to engage the interest of some students, though 
most students find them somewhat more interesting than daily lectures. 
Some teachers find that when they talk very much, students tend to 
draw back, to let the teacher do the work. And some rteadily refuse to 
enter into discussiDns. They are not sure of themselves and dread 
giving their opinions. Students who are not interested in learning under 
any circumstances are of no account in this inquiry--just as they are of 
no account in any discussion of education, except nursery care. That 
they drag classes down cannot be doubted. The "mucker pose" drags 
everything down, not only classes. 

In discussion classes the student theoretically must take his share of 
responsibility for what goer on. But many people content themselves 



with silence--and griping. This is not important, they are the lol- 
lowers. It is important, however, that a few people sometimes impose 
their own attitudes on discussions by talking constantly and prop- 
agandizing rather than thinking. But that is what we expect of people 
anyhow, and perhaps cure can come if we see how people really are. 
Some teachers are delighted when they find their classes begin to 
develop a healthly independence and a tendency to make up their own 
minds about things. Discussion classes, by freeing the teacher from 
the position of chief motive power, give him the time to look around 
and see what students are really doing. He gets to know a good bit 
about people by hearing them discuss things. They become free, they 
"loosen up" and say what they really think, though there continues 
some disagreeable and fatuous flattery of the teacher which enables 
some to evade responsibility for their own learning. 

Discussions have the difficulty that they begin rather slowly, with 
much preliminary sparring and "fishing," but one is awed when a 
whole group gets really interested and push hard to work out the possi- 
ble solutions of a difficult problem. If some comments are banal, 
others seem thoughtful and clear. The student talks on his own level, 
in terms he understands, and he does not hesitate to differ with a 
fellow student so much as he would with a teacher. What seems to the 
outsider to be rambling is actually the psychological area in which the 
student wants to move, and can move, but chiefly--will move. 

One hour is too short a time for good discussion classes. Two hours 
would be better, twice a week. Anyhow, the humanities need more time 
than their thirty-odd hours a quarter. It is wonderful if anything can be 
done in that time. Perhaps this can be altered one day. Another pos- 
sibility would be three one hour classes with one two hour seminar on 
Fridays, in which both instructors, history and English, could partic- 

Discussion classes are not a touchstone of learning. They are only 
a possible way to free students from the domination and limitation and 
bias of the teacher to some extent (never wholly). The student is 
allowed freedom to grow in the directions he thinks best. One of the 
most serious criticisms of discussion centers around the belief that 
students are too immature to make their own decisions. But when and 
how shall maturity come? With freedom and with responsibility, the 
student uses his own language to express himself, he finds out what his 
own thoughts are worth when compared with those of others, and he 
gets practise in organizing, interpreting, working things aut, and not 
least, training for reasoning and cooperating with his fellows. 

Discussion classes are pure torture for those who do not mean to 
learn. They make indifference ridiculous, and they leave the student 
with his own problem. They give practise in speaking, in courtesy. 
They focus attention on the subject rather than on the teacher. What 
release there can be from the personal conflict between teacher and 
and pupil, brought on by the fierce pressures in middle class families, 
which fill the cup of resentment to fullness, and readily find their 
object in the teacher as a substitute for demanding parents. This is an 
area of enormous importance to education, but it is only one of many 


problems of the teaching art. 

The statement is made that discussions are vague and that they 
"never get anywhere." This has much truth in it, and the inability of 
students in this respect should be attacked with vigor. There is no 
better way for the classroom to demonstrate this important lack in 
students, and no better way for students to begin the long, painful pro- 
cess of gaining power in extended thinking. How else can one learn? 

It is to be earnestly hoped that this brief and tentatively arrived at 
article will spur faculty and students to "think together", always to 
think together. Without that, the curriculum cannot ever be a unit, 
a whole, nor can we ever do more than vaguely surmise our real ob- 
jectives. The whole process needs continuous examination and 
revision. The best time to begin this is now. - 

A college is a group of people trying to learn various things, to 
know themselves, to "become themselves" as the ancients said. They 
need to learn how to talk to each other sanely and not as now, angrily. 
They need, faculty and student to continue learning, to go forward. 






■ ■■ - 
v B^~ 


X /111 I ,-^g 

ft A il Lr 


(cont'd, from page 5) 

Suddenly it seemed that she must have absolute solitude. Yes, she 
must go somewhere where she could be alone. Elvira hurriedly left the 
cafe, opened a man hole cover, and slipped down into the sewer. Here 
was solitude, utter and complete. Elvira's body felt light and feathery 
as she allowed herself to be carried hither and yon by the current. She 
was overcome by a feeling of peace as she drifted along in the sewer. 
Finally, she emerged from a conduit into the east river. Pulling herself 
aboard a garbage barge, she lay pillowing her head on an old grapefruit 
rind and meditating. Lazily stretching, she rolled over luxuriantly and 
buried her face in the heap. She was finally brought back to reality by 
a violent itch on her left hip. She rose slowly - majestically - yawning, 
stretching, scratching. 

In her state of giddiness, Elvira paid no attention to the wraith-like 
shapes that drifted by in the darkness. She could rf>aH the lettering on 
the signs - "Three Mile Limit", "Twelve Mile Limit"... Suddenly - a 
strange feeling came over her. She gasped and struggled as she tried 
to solve the mystery of her plight. With the speed of lightening - the 
realization came to her. She had been dumped! Twelve miles out in the 
black Atlantic - she had been dumped! What to do? What to do? She 
must swim, of course, but - being of a melodramatic nature - she 
couldn't resist this opportunity to do an emotional nip-up - even though 
there was no one there to appreciate the demonstration (with the possible 
exception of one or two disinterested salmon). After a few minutes of 
fruitless dramatics acclaimed by an occasional burp from the salmon, 
ahe decided to save her energy and breath for the swim home. Finally, 
she reached one of the loading wharves in the harbor. Too tired to 
pull herself out of the water, she tied her arms around a piling and 
floated there until the tide went out and left her lying in the mud. How 
long she lay thus she could not tell. Finally she summoned up enough 
strength to lift her tired eyelids, whereupon she found herself gazing 
into the countenance of a crab who had just eaten away her arm. He 
scrutinized her carefully for a moment then lumbered away. 

This was a crisis. . .Elvira knew. She was extremely weakened. 
Mustering all of her strength, she dragged herself slowly through the 
mud, pausing occasionally to meditate. Finally, she reached the sea 
wall. Just as she was about to pull herself to safety, however, the 
tide came in and she was washed out to sea again. This process was 
maintained with minor variations for about six months before she was 
rescued. During this time she had formed a few speaking acquain- 
tances with the local denizens of the deep, and had even toyed with the 
idea of giving up her land life altogether and becoming a mermaid, but 
this was not to be. The water in the bay was becoming polluted due to 
her presence, so the trawlers got up a petition to get rid of her. She 
was towed to the Grand Banks and left to her own devices. Elvira 
found the Leeming banks too much for her introvertive tendencies, and 
Bet out in search of greener pastures. Battling the Arctic Current up 
the coast line and into Hudson's Bay, she finally landed at Port Nelson, 
Manitoba where she stopped long enough to secure a pair of snow- 


shoes, then mushed on across the Northwest Territory. Switching to a 
dog team at Dawson, she followed the twisting course of the Yukon 
through the Tanana Hills and out into the Bering Straits, and pro- 
ceeded to peel off mileage in the general direction of Siberia. 

Her progress was halted temporarily when she landed on the remote 
island of Lower Slobbovia. Here she sojourned for a brief while, and 
renewed her acquaintance with Clarke Rasputingable notary sojac. 
Each night they would sit at the window and watch the wolves chasing 
people through the snow banks of the beautiful summer landscape. And 
each night she would play for him on the harpsichord while he sang the 
Slobbovian national anthem "A Dish of Kreplach, a Begel, and You" - 
or some simple folk song like - "Rad Reever Walley". It was a glori- 
ous, idyllic existence, but it must come to an end. Finally the day 
arrived when she went down to the wharf at San Franc istnic, bid a tear- 
ful goodbye to the weeping multitude, and dove into the Red Sea. After 
a few days she pulled herself ashore on the East Cape of Siberia. 
Knowing not whither to turn, she joined a wolf pack and migrated to the 
Steppes. Before long Elvira grew tired of this interesting, but point- 
less life, - and she began to turn longing glances towards her native 
land. Finally she could stand it no longer^ so she called the wolf pack 
together and told them of her desires. The wolves replied that they 
were very reluctant to see her go, but if she must then she must. 

And so Elvira left the pack, but before returning home, she wanted 
to fulfill one last desire. She wanted to swim to the English Channel. 
In view of her past exploits of an aquatic nature, this would seem to be 
an anti-climax. But this was not the case at all. Elvira didn't want to 
swim across the channel - she wanted to swim up it. So she went to 
Lisbon - not that there was anything advantageous about starting in 
Lisbon - she just wanted to see what the place looked like, and, 
besides, it seemed about as good a place as any to start from. She 
was greatly disappointed, however, and hardly paused to eat lunch be- 
fore jumping into the water and beginning her marathon. Her life with 
the wolves had put her in fine shape for this ordeal, and she felt so 
full of life that she swam not only up the channel but also around the 
British Isles... a feat, one ventures, that will not be equalled for many 
years to come. 

After satisfying this whim, she decided that the time had come, when 
at last she must return home, by water - of course. Elvira set not 
only a great precedent for future greats in swimming circles by swim- 
ming the Atlantic, but she made it even harder by swimming it under 
water. (This is not at all as unreasonable as it would seem at first 
glance. It was only natural that since Elvira had spent so much of her 
time in the water as of late, certain biological changes should occur. 
It was this that enabled her to perform her feat. In short Elvira had 
developed gills.) 

She reached her home ,port about two weeks after leaving England. 
As she pulled herself out of the East River, she began to wonder how 
little Ludette was getting along in the trunk. The thought spurred her 
on and she arrived home in record time. She ripped away the lid of the 
trunk to find Ludette curled up as snug as a bug in a rug. He needed a 


shave and haircut, but other than this was exactly as she had left him. 
Ludette sat up sleepily rubbing his eyes. He noticed his mother stand- 
ing over him. "I'm hongry, Ma." he wailed. 

"Shaddup! " Elvira cooed, kicking his head through the window. 
Elvira sat down at the window seat and gazed moodily at the brick 
wall of the tenement next door. The night noises were beginning again. 

Just as they had begun ever since she could remember 



Arthur Whitfield 

Someone opened the wrong door last week in the publications office 
and out tumbled a dusty volume of old newspapers. They had been care- 
fully bound for posterity, or anyone who might be interested in the 
origin of things. We pulled up a chair, lit a cigarette, and slumped 
back fourteen years into the past to read the first issues of the Inkwell. 

The first bud of the Inkwell bloomed on November 15, 1935, with a 
picture of Savannah's first institute of higher learning. It was a large 
six page affair, beautifully written, with a wide scope of news coverage 
and professionally printed. It was as fine an inaugural issue as anyone 
could have done. The Armstrong building was described as -"A gem 
of beauty in a golden setting of tradition - ." Everyone seemed to be 
quite pleased and happy about the whole thing. There were salutatory 
columns and editorials concerning all the new phases of activity that 
would enliven the once quiet mansion on Bull Street. 

There was a long column in the second issue that treated of an 
epidemic prevailing on the campus at that time knowii as "Flunkitis." 
The author of the article was a young student named Hinckley Murphy. 
Hinckley wrote his way into the title of Feature Editor in a few months. 
An editorial was written on war urging the college students of America 
to unite in torming one of the most powerful organizations in the world 
to prevent war. Evidently, the Inkwei! wasn't as inf'.iential then as now. 

Armstrong jumped into the sports picture immeuiately. Savannah 
High beat the Geechees in a basketball game played at the auditorium, 
one of the first games in which the school ever participated. 

Students fell in love then too. Quote from the Scandal Column 

"One of our gals gets the mumps and twenty B. C. boys go down.--" 
Hot editorials were written about school spirit and such questions were 
openly asked as, "Where, oh where has our glee club gone?" "What's 
the matter with the Student Council (Senate)?" One daring writer on 
the staff publicly declared that the people of America should "inflict 
some terrible and everlasting torture to those two mad humans who 
wrote 'The Music goes Round and Round'." 

The first cycle has been completed. The same questions that were 
asked then are being asked now. Whether this proves anything or not 
is beside the point. The school must have a newspaper. 


WIN- Utf£* DRAW 




The Big Boy counted his wad. Six thousand, two hundred, and 
seventy-nine bucks; plenty for him to make a good start in the busi- 
ness world. The Big Boy looked at it differently though. 

No one could dispute the fact that today was the Big Boy's lucky 
day. This afternoon when he went to the track he had twelve dollars. 
But today the Big Boy's horses ran first. The last race of the after- 
noon had been the one; he had put the entire winnings of the day on a 
nag called Silver-Wise. The nag's first win in sixty-nine starts paid 
him $47.50 for two bucks. Yes, it was the Big Boy's lucky day. 

Oscar "the Big Boy" Schimaloff walked up to the door of the Troc- 
adero, and strolled in as if he owned the place. "So this is the big 
time," the Big Boy murmured. "It's places like these that I'll be 
hanging out in, from here on in." 

It was a swanky place. Early yet, just the dinner crowd and a few 
dancers. Inside the "Gaming Room" it was different though. The 
dice tables were already packed, and business at the wheels was 
picking up fast. 

Oscar looked the place over, and thought, "The odds at the wheel 
are in favor of the house, though they aren't bad." He started toward 
the dice table and then stopped. He always lost at dice. "No," he 
almost said aloud. "Today I'll play a man's game." 

Just past the black-jack tables were the poker rooms. The games 
were big in there, and to get into one you had to be known. The Big 
Boy decided that it was about time that he became known. 

He walked up to the table and bought one hundred dollars' worth of 
chips. Twenty dollars was the most that you could bet on one card. 
The Big Boy bluffed on each, lost the hundred on five hands, and as he 
took out the roll to buy more chips, a man in a tux came up and asked 
him if he didn't think poker was more interesting. The Big Boy was 
known now. 


He was ushered into a spacious room with a large table in the center 
and took a seat placed so that his back was to the door. To his left 
sat a short, fat man. He was called Nick. Next was a man with thjck- 
lensed glasses and flaming red hair. Third was an elderly gentleman 
in a tux. 

Directly opposite the Big Boy sat the hardest man he had ever seen. 
He was slightly gray at the temples and had cold, piercing eyes to 
match. As the Big Boy entered, this man, Gordy as he was called, had 
just seen a seven-hundred-dollar raise. He won the pot on three 
queens. The thing that interested the Big Boy most, though, was the 
tie clasp he wore. Two thick platinum chains came from behind his 
conservative blue and gray stripped tie, and supported a solid gold 
"G". It was a little more than two inches high, and inlaid in the G 
were nine two-karat, perfect blue diamonds. Something told the Big 
Boy that Gordy wasn't the type of a man who would wear paste. 

To the left of Gordy sat a man who always kept a smile on his face. 
It wasn't a forced smile, but one that expressed a delight in what he 

was doing. The Big Boy had heard of men like these not playing 

for the money, rather for the love of high stakes. On the Big Boy's 
right §at a Marine colonel. He was winning about six thousand when 
the Big Boy bought in. 

In two hours, the Big Boy was winning eight thousand dollars. He 
figured it was just about time to quit. But fate intervened. Nick the 
fat man to his left, had just dealt. The Big Boy had a habit of squeez- 
ing open each hand. As he looked at the last card he felt a thrill of 
delight run through him. He had already seen a pair of aces in his 
hand, and his last card was a third ace. 

The man with the thick glasses opened for a hundred dollars. Then 
to the Big Boy's surprise, Tux upped him another hundred. Gordy 
called the bet. The man with the perpetual smile and the Marine 
colonel dropped. It was up to the Big Boy. 

"It's about time we drove out the pikers," said the Big Boy as he 
put in ten fifty dollar chips, "and five hundred." 

Nick, the fat man, dropped. Glasses looked questioningly at his two 
pair. He called the bet. 

Tux pondered before he bet. In his hand he held a king along with 
three tens and a seven. He was almost sure that no one had kings. 
That meant aces, queens, and jacks were the only three of a kind that 
would beat him. To open, in all probability, the fat boy had at least a 
pair of them, so that limited it to two out of three. There were eight 
chances tor lower three's of a kind though he thought it best to see 
what the Big Boy was doing. He kicked in another hundred. 

Gordy saw the raise, and looked quizzically at the Big Boy. They 
think I'm bluffing, though Oscar. Well, to my way of thinking these 
three aces are high. He smiled as he raised Tux another five hundred. 

Glasses' forehead turned almost the color of his hair, but he saw 
the third raise. 

The Big Boy's smile gave the Tux the clue that the kid's hand was 
better than his. It would be stupid not to call though. 


Unflinchingly Gordy put his chips into the pot, and the draw began. 

Tux almost broke out laughing as Glasses asked for one card. He 
wouldn't worry about him in the next round of betting. He was still 
smiling at Glasses' stupidity as he took his two cards. 

His smile changed, however when Gordy asked for one. The Big Boy 
didn't like that draw either, because he knew that if Gordy got the card 
he wanted, nothing he could draw to three aces could beat him. 

The Big Boy took his two cards and shuffled his hand. He had no- 
ticed the expression on Glasses' face as he looked at the card he had 
drawn. From that, Oscar knew that he had filled. But he didn't mind 
when he- looked at his hand. The fourth ace was there. 

Tux looked perplexed as he opened his hand, but the Big Boy could 
figure it was put on. Gordy didn't bat a eyelash as he looked at his 
cards. Here the kid didn't know what to think. 

He reasoned that too steep a bet would make Glasses think he had 
four of a kind. He only opened for five hundred. 

Glasses fell for it, and delayed just a moment to cause some doubt. 
He then raised five hundred. 

Tux measured out the thousand and made a stack the same height. 
"And a thousand" was all he said. 

Gordy raised that thousand another thousand. That worried the Big 
Boy. It would cost him two thousand to stay, and there was no telling 
what Gordy had. It was too late to back down now. There's just one 
way to play it now, and that's the way I played it this afternoon, 
thought the Big Boy. Play it straight, and ride the wad. 

"And a thousand back at you," he said. 

This was too much for Glasses and he threw his cards down. 

Gordy counted the chips in front of the Big Boy, and raised him tha 
much. "It'll cost you seven thousand dollars to stay." Placidly he 
shoved in seven stacks of blue chips from in front of him. 

The Big Boy knew that Gordy had not bluffed all evening. He thought 
of dropping, but deciding against it he shoved his money, all of it, into 
the pot, announcing, "Lay 'em down Gordy; you're seen." 

Big Boy laid his hand down. Gordy just looked at the four aces, and 
said, "You call a good bluff, kid thats all for me tonight." 

The Big Boy was feeling good as he walked out of the Trocadero and 
started walking up Chamberlain Avenue. 

He awoke with a throbbing in his head. The sun had just come up, 
and his clothes were wet with dew. Then he remembered his money. 
Frantically he went through his pockets, knowing it was useless. It 
was gone, every penny. 

Suddenly his frown faded. He smiled as he glanced down at the damp 
earth. The early morning sun made nine perfect blue diamonds 
sparkle like nine tiny atomic bomb explosions. He picked up a "G" 

shaped object, placed it in his pocket, and walked off singing yes, 

the Big Boy's luck had changed. 




Clifford Clarke 

Under sprawling oaks I lie 

apple trees and OD blankets 
cognac, hedgerows, bloated cows 
dry dog-biscuits, silly pamphlets 

jibber jabber, killing time 
nights you freeze, days you sweat 
straw roofs and empty looks 
rusted rifle and bayonet 

Smitty (he likes roller-skating). 
Pitts and Kitts and that damned Fitz 

with his chewing tobacco my non-coms. 


July 27, 1944 

Under sprawling oaks I lie 

broken trees and bloody blankets 
cognac, more hedgerows, more cows 
deadly silence, hot welling tears. 

there is no talk, no ticking time 

dark light hot cold doesn't matter 

roof's gone, the people too 
I try to look just a blur. 

Smitty has no legs, just stumps. 

my non-coms over there under that canvas 

Pitts and Kitts and Sergeant Fitz. 



July 28, 1944 

There had been grins .... healthy profanity 
Always there were going to be a lot more kids 
Husky brown bodies each with a dreams. 

The dead lie in the dust of their dreams. 

Under sprawling oaks I lie 
But not far enough under. 





Roberte Longe 

Ther was with us eek a hanasom fellawe, 
Drese'd in sporte cote of blak and yellawe. 
A student of philosophie and arte was he, 
But these nas nat whatte you mit thynk hem to be, 
For hys philosophie was Ehglisshe on cue-balle whan needed, 
Hys arte was eight-balle to its destinie speeded. 
He hadde not a grate deel of altitude. 
Abot as high as a cue-stike he stude. 
Hys trawsers grene and verily baggy, 
And down from hys lipse didst chesterfeld sagge. 
At game of poole non hys glorie out-shone. 
Whan crashed he the tryangal thrie balles were gone. 
Throgh hys leene fingres the cue-stike didst glide, 
Throgh squintyng eyen at hys target he spyde, 
Than the cue-balle was fyred like atomik roket. 
The ten-balle dropped into appoynted poket. 
With glynt in hys eyen and sneere on hys lipse. 
He wolde laf whan e're he'd com to grippse 
With the beste poole players of Armstronge's halles. 
One after one he wolde synk the balles. 
An admirabal fellwae was thys handsom yonge student, 
But in hys studyes he nas nat prudant, 
And as resaulte hys greydes were messe. 
But he peyed hys tuition ech quartre I gesse, 
And who am I to sy whatte' s beste. 
But all in all he was a terryball peste. 

(Author's note! With profuse apologies to Geoffrey Chaucer, 
to the English language, to literature in general and to Mr. 
Howard in particular, I here cast upon suffering humanity my 
first poetic attempt in Middle English. May man forget and 
Heaven forgive!) 



by Mark Steadman 

"I'm gonna' get into condition," 
Said Mr. Jones to his wife. 

"I'm tired, and weak, and flabby; 

I ain't gettin' nuthin' from life." 

He pounded his fist on the table, 
And he swore a solemn vow, 

That he'd get himself into condition, 

And he'd get himself into it NOW. 

His wife helped him into his work clothes, 
And she bade him goodbye at the door; 

Then she got the linament down from the shelf, 
'Cause she'd been through it all before. 

-Ie dug for awhile in the garden. 

He raked up a leaf or two. 
^hen he leaned on his rake and admired his arm 

And growled of "brawn and thew." 

e cleaned out the basement furnace. 

He cleaned out the attic junk, 
nd between his groaning and panting, 

He jabbered of "guts and spunk." 

] >w Mr. Jones lies on the bed 

As stiff as an oaken crutch, 
A' d Mrs. Jones is rubbing him down 

While he screams at her every touch. 
B' t give him a couple of months or so - 

Enough to forget the pain - 
A I, as Mrs. Jones realizes now, 

She'll go through it all again. 


" J. Anthony Heffernan 

The small particles of plaster on the ceiling stood out, one from 
another. If you looked long enough. They became Mike's sole amuse- 
ment during the day, when it was too hot to sleep. Things he had never 
noticed before, suddenly took on a new realism in terms of patterns to 
the ever watchful eye. Even the heartbeat, that he had taken for grant- 
ed for so long, had a new meaning. For the first time he discovered, 
that his heart would change its tempo and even stop for a second if he 
took a djeep breath and held it. The blood pulsating through his temples 
told him. ...But you had to listen. And Mike had lots of time for 

From his position in the bed, the objects in reach were not to be 
seen. Since the pains in his throat started, he couldn't move that 
sinewy neck much. It hurt to speak. There probably wasn't much to 
see anyway. Of course, he knew where things in the room were. The 
voices in the room at different times had told him. Visitors had a way 
of talking about everything except that which Mike wanted to hear. 

No one ever came to see Mike. Most came to the feebly sick old 
man on the hospital bed, and surely this wasn't Mike. Not the wiry 
little Irishman, who had coached the office softball team and could hit 
as hard and often as the office boy. "Never had been sick," he dic- 
tated to the intern, who recorded his medical history, "until these 
pains in my legs and belly." 

Visitors came mainly to have an audience. They didn't come to see 
but to be seen. Having want for something better to 'do, they came 
to tell of their acquaintances who had had the same symptoms and woul< 
have recovered more efficiently if only... The look of morbid dread 
that came over them when the priest left. Last rites always had an at- 
mosphere of death about them, but it didn't mean anything; they were 
routine. ...Unless they were meant for you. 

The stillness of the hall outside was broken from the usual whisper- 
ings and hollow echoes. Soft compression of rubber soles against 
waxed oak heralded the travels of one Doctor Houston, and disrupted 
the silent prayer being said within the quiet room. Mike knew the 
sounds associated with the walking of everyone on his floor. Sounds 
played a large part of his life now, when all else was fading. "Sure am 
glad I had that ear fixed when I busted it diving, when I was a kid." „ 

The old man had heard the words "Urinary Carcinoma or something, 
in the doctors' consultation room the fateful day when he was told to 
report to the hospital and await an operation. He probably would never 
have known it to be a cancer if he had not listened to the voices outside 
the door. "Urinary carcinoma" .. ."Cancer" .. .The words scattered all 
his thoughts. He became a fanatic for life. And death. This was one 
of those things which happen to other people. Never to us. "So Jim 
Gabriel, who worked two desks from the office window, had died of 

cancer of some sort. He was old." 

At least older than a guy who could still beat most of the fellows in 
the office in a fast eighteen holes of golf on a Saturday afternoon. "I've 
always had the breaks. Prepared. . .I'm planning to live. If these pains 
get worse, I'll be waiting for ;em. I can stand a lot." The sheet under 
the man with the haunted look was ripped in the places that he had 
clenched it in his calloused fingers to keep from crying out. Only once 
in his unresting sleep did he scream. 

"I'm no baby," he declared to the woman in white who tried to give 
him morphine from the untouched vial in his bedside table. "Guess 
nothing is so painful that a man can't bear it. God lixed us that way. 
Seems to be a question of mind over matter. You sorta' black out if it 
gets too rough." He winced in pain as he tried to move his right leg. 
The door opened to allow the entrance of the floor nurse and two anaes- 
thetists from the operating room above. Mike frowned, "We only die 
once, and because you've probably never been face to face with death, 
you've more than likely never had to think much about it. li God wants 
me now, I'm ready, which is more than I can say lor the average person 
I'm not afraid." The pressure on the bed sore below his swollen knee 
was somewhat relieved as he was lifted onto the cushioned padding of 
a wheeled stretcher marked in bold black stencil "Surgery." Stiff 
white linen swathed Mike from head to his thin, pale feet. His soft, 
almost transparent blue eyes were moist as he said, "Maybe God's 
giving me the breaks, even now." As he passed through the doorway 
he whispered, "Somehow, I'm lucky." 


MAY 31 ,1950 


There is always something to be said: hut realizing how insignifi- 
cant this publication seems t<> be, as far as the student bod) is con- 
cerned, there is really little need for anything to be said .... that i-. 
anything of importance, If three editors lost their lives in rounding 
up material for The Mercury, or if Somerset Maugham recommended 
it for a short cut to a more profitable education, the bloodshot eve of 
this thing tailed student body would make no motion that would in an\ 
way suggest a blink. So, let's not get serious. \t least, let's not talk 
about anything serious. 

On the other hand, it would be equally futile to diseuss an e\- 

tremel) light subject; such as: "Hom To Make The Most Out 01 ''tour 
Mercury.'" or "I'll Gel Around To Reading It Someday, Maybe*'. 

Now that we're forced to drive with our brakes on, we hope that 
the typewriter will break down, or maybe be taken awaj l>\ the finance 
company . 

A lot has happened since the Fall issue of The Mercury started 

taking shape, i V>i thai that particular issue was a chronological land- 
mark.) At that time, the school year, l ( '-'.")0. got organized, in a 
sense, if that makes sense. The best (dee Club Armstrong has ever had 
started chirping last fall. Having met success everywhere the) turned, 

Mrs. Smiths hummingbirds are likel) to achieve much more in (In- 
line of fame I if not fortune) before this year drvs up and blows aua\. 

\ short-lived SPRO Bputtered and coughed long enough to stir up a 
little excitement, including a radio program and a few other festivities. 
It also gave several Btudents a chance to he officers of something or 
other. Hut maybe SI'UO didn't create as much excitement as the 
rabble-rousing Dirtsifter, an outlaw publication, the memory of which 

still tingles a hell id sentiment in a few people. If there were an) 

political grievances afloat, the) were directly or indirectl) the results 
of the shady policies and slightly "erring editorials that gave the 

'Sifter its punch, a punch so ridiculous that main ridiculed or intimi- 
dated students took it seriousK and went home and told their folk- 
about it. \nd who will forget the night Mn. Ol.earv's COH kicked 

over the ash tra\ ami set afire the Hunter Field gym? The catastrophe 
incited Vrmstrong hardshells to march on City Hall. The march didn't 
do any good, hut it made a rood newspaper story, and. too. it gave 

Some nunc BtudentS a chance to make a speech or Utilize mob possi 
bilities. The basketball team, which defeated a foe a few hours prior 
to the kick of the COW, went on to a good Season, despite the physical 
ami mental ailments that played parasite to Mr Torrie's Terrors. \ 

few more "queens" were -elected for the Armstrong Hall (d Queens. 
More outstanding among activities i- graduation, a few days distant 
I ommencemenl exer< ises an- always good for a few laughs, more drinks, 
and many more speeches. With that combination of human necessities, 

graduation will he forced to "go over big . even if we haven't "found 

ourselves" \>\ then. 

Main more deeds, good and had. could be mentioned. Hut you 

can't put too much on one of 1 1 Besides, the typewriter is 

beginning to groan. Or is it us? 






Savannah, Georgia 


Volume 3 

Max 20. ITmi 

N umbei 2 



Marianne Boblasky 
Harriet Krobalski 
Howard McClellan 

James Head 




I'M \ SW \KT (,1 ^ 







(IN ( VN1NE K( !\( \K\ \ I ION 20 

I KT'S IIWK \Nollll K (I 1' 





VOi \».i; 

[NSIDE . . . \Nl) 01 T 

SO I 0NG nil) l Bl T WORSHI1 

ROl ND rwo 

RING \Koi Nli \ n B 

mi i hi i; r>iin> of <:\Nm 
inn -l (in i i;ii nih n STRE3 I 

m si \ i in-. 












By Millard Shepherd 

May 2 
Dear Sam: 

It ain't right I should feel like I do. You know how a guy feels 
when he loses the last $10 he has and he don't get paid for six days? 
Well, that's how I feel 'cause I have not been slapping that baseball 
like I should. I ain't had such a slump before in all my 10 years in 

Yesterday I thought I might be getting out of the slump 'cause 
I hit a foul ball and that is something I have not done in 6 games. 
Mgr. Jinkle says I should not worry 'cause he knows when I get outa 
the slump I will be hitting everything that they throw at me. Sam if 
this keeps up I will have forgotten how to hit a baseball by the time 
I am the age of 29. 

It ain't right for me to have such bad luck so early in the season 
'cause you know how well I was going in spring training. It ain't right 
that a guy who hits .490 in spring training should be hitting only .298 
after the season is a month old. 

Sam you explain to the people down at the pool hall that it ain't 
my fault that I ain't hitting 'cause I'm trying hard. You tell them 
what Mgr. Jinkle told me so's maybe they will understand how things 


Your Pal, 

No Hit Jones 

May 8 
Dear Sam: 

The letter came yesterday and I was glad to hear that the boys at 
the pool hall still got confidence in me. I feel much better today 'cause 
as you will read in the papers I come outa the slump and am looking 
like I done last year. You have already read in the paper that I got 
a home run off that St. Louis pitcher and ain't nobody in this league 
done that this season. Mgr. Jinkle says that he told me that I would 
hit everything they pitched to me and I have just started 'cause I will 
hit 40 home runs this year. He ain't joking 'cause he knows his base- 
ball and knows a good man when he sees one and if I feel like I did 
when I hit that ball yesterday I will hit 50 home runs this season. 

Tell the boys in the pool hall that I appreciate the Sympathy card 
which they sent me and also tell them that I will knock hell outa them 
what signed their names to it. 

Your Pal, 


May 21 
I tear Sam: 

Well I guess you saw in the papers that 1 hit 2 home runs against 
the Indians yesterday and that the day before I got a triple and, two 
singles off the St. Louis team. You have also seen in the papers where 
I got in a fight in the locker room with Bill Mulligan that left hand 
pitcher what the club carries around cause he can pitch sometimes. 
Don't believe all that stuff what them reporters wrote about me hitting 
him with a ball 'cause I hit him with my left. We got in a fight over 
a bar of soap and I got a black eye which he ain't but I got front teeth 
which he ain't. Mgr. Jinkle fined us both 50 bucks apiece which I 
don't think he shoulda done 'cause we weren't mad at each other. 

Mgr. Jinkle sent that boy back home what you read about might 
replace me and that makes me feel much better "cause I know that 
Mgr. Jinkle has complete confidence in me. 

Your Pal, 

Black Eve Jones 

June 1 
Hear Sam: 

Well vou have seen how I slaughtered that New York team during 
the series with them and that is just the beginning 'cause I will do to 
them what I done to all the teams. I got 2 home runs and 5 base hits 
against them. We took all three games and Me and the club made 
them look like they was a bush league what ain't got nobody but Q 
bat boys and a Mgr. 

I also got fined for fighting with that left hand bum Mulligan and 
now 1 got two black eyes which he ain't and I still have front teeth 
which he ain't got none of now 'cause I knocked out all of his teeth 
except five which are in the back of his boney head and I can not get 
to them. 

Mgr. Jinkle is real proud of me 'cause I am now leading the league 
in home runs with 18 and the closest man to me is that McTwe with 
the Cubs. It looks like I might do what He said 1 would as to hitting 
theill 40 home runs. Tell the boys at the pool hall hello for me and 
that I will beat hell outa them guys what sent me that card. 

Your Pal, 

Black Eyes Jones 

June 10 
I lr;ir Sam: 

It has been sometime since I have written you but as you know 
I have been blMJ hitting home runs and winning games for the bum 
pitchers what mv team has got. Mgr. Jinkle has been pitching that 
hum Lefthander Mulligan cjuirt frequently. I guess it is because he 
knows that I am hitting good and that I will win the game even if he 
himself had to pitch. It hurts my sold to win for that bum as you 

have read in the papers I am leading the league in runs batted in. 

Yesterday we finished our series with the Boston team and we 
won 3 of the 4 games as you have read in the papers. I got 3 home 
runs and 2 triples plus a double and a single. I won two of the games 
by hitting home runs and the other I was aided some by the team. 
You have already read about me hitting the umpire in the game we 
lost 'cause he called a home run which I hit but did not get credit for 
'cause he called it a foul ball and it weren't no foul ball. Them news- 
paper guys is always printing the bum dope 'cause I did not hit him 
but grabed at him and he fell on his backside trying to get away from 
me and it is not true that I will be suspended. I will just be fined $100 
dollars because he himself says I did not touch him. Mgr. Jinkle says 
that if I keep getting fined that I will owe the club and the league $ 
at the end of the season so I am going to cool my temper down like 
he says 'cause I have been fined altogether 550$ which ain't right to 
me 'cause I do not mean to do the things that I do 'cause I am human 
and do not believe in being shoved around by no one. 

Tell the boys at the pool hall hello for me and if they do not get 
a chance to come up and see me play like they said they would I will 
be blue and not let them win all of the dough that I come home with 
after we win the series. 

Your Pal, 


June 27 
Dear Sam: 

I received the letter yesterday a week ago and I am sorry I have 
not written sooner but things have been going in such a way that I 
am busy all the time hitting home runs and leading the leagues in 
home runs and everything else what them newspaper guys put in that 
box what is in the papers everyday. The boys say maybe I should 
turn pitcher and lead that also and I think that I could 'cause them 
pitchers what my club has are all bums. It also happens that we are 
leading the league by 5 games and we are going to St. Louis and we 
will beat them so that it will put us 8 games ahead of the league. 

Tell the boys to come to St. Louis and see a great ball player ( ME I 
in action what is going to play in the All Star Game in New York July 4. 

Your Pal, 

All Star Jones 

June 28 
Dear Sam: 

You have read the papers so tell the boys not to come to St. Louis 
'cause of what happened yesterday in Boston about my hitting the 
umpire over the head with the bat. Them newspaper guys have fixed 
it so as I will be fined and suspended for 2 wks. That bum umpire 
called a home run a foul and when I come back from first base I hit 
him over the head with the bat cause of what he called me. I do not 
like no one to call me what he did and when a umpire calls me that 

I have the right to hit him oxer the head, which I done and knocked 
him out and they had to stop the game while the law come and haul 
me off to jail only I did not sta\ there for long 'cause Mgr. J inkle come 
and bailed me out from the charge of assault and batten and it ain't 
right to me 'cause I did not assault nor batten him. 1 knocked hell 
outa him and he will be careful what he calls foul balls on me from 
now on. 

I will write \ oil later "cause 1 will ha\e plentv of time to cool off 
and watch the team lose games 'cause 1 ain't playing. 
Your suspended Pal, 

July 3 
Dear Sam: 

They arc going to let me pla\ in the All-Star game cause people 
what like to see me pla\ have written in for me and so 1 will hit 4 
home runs for them tomorrow at New York 'cause I am very grateful 
to the people what wrote in to the president of the league. 

I have been having to sit on the bench and watch the team loose 
with out me 'cause of that bum umpire. I have tooled down and have 
not been in a fight for 2 days and all the boys think 1 am sick or 
something cause I have not hit none like I should when they give me 
an argument. After 1 will begin to play again I will not let them bums 
on my team give me no sass 'cause I am settling down and I am going 
to pla\ ball like I should the rest of the season. 1 will hit them home 
runs and stoped getting fined. 

V.ur Pal. 


July 5 

Dear Sam: 

I showed them hums in that game yesterdaj didn't I. lla. The) 
would not put me in the Starting line up hut they called me to pinch 
hit in the 9 when we were behind 1 run and 2 wa> out and none of 
them WBM on have The pitcher throwed me one of them BUI ker balls 
that he i- famous for and I belled it and it went o\er the wall. lla. 
He was the sue ker I did not get to hat no more 'cause the other team 
scored off an error what tin- catcher made when I threw him the ball 
from left. 

I am writing this from the train what is carrying me hack to the 
club so as I can go back to sitting on the bench. As I -it here writing 
tin- letter I am feeling sorr\ for m\>clf Cause of yesterday but 1 will 
not let it get me down, lot I am going back and hit a million home 
runs and ain I nobod) puma stop Die except maybe that pitcher what 
pilches for Boston. I am going back and do what I promised Mgr. 
Jinklc. No more fights. I will hit home rim- in-tcad of umpires. 

Your Pal, 


July 8 
Dear Sam: 

Well Sam again I am in trouble as you have read in them papers 
and I am writing this letter from the jail house what they got me in 
'cause of what I done on the train coming back from the All-Star game. 
Do not believe them newspaper guys 'cause they have got what hap- 
pened into a big lie. What really happened was that I had a couple 
of beers in the club car and when some drunk what noticed me from 
my pitchers in the paper come up and started cussing me out for losing 
the All-Star game on account of the throw what the catcher missed I 
knocked hell outa him and they had to stop the train at some little 
hick town and take him to the hospital 'cause I musta hit him harder 
than what I thought 'cause he had a brain cussion and that is not good 
Mgr. Jinkle says. I am to go to court tomorrow on a charge what says 
I assaulted this fellow but I did not. I hit him 'cause he was stepping 
on my toes but the lawyer what I have says that I can not claim self 
defense because someone steps on my toes. He should come home 
'cause you know what happens when some one steps on toes at home, 
they do not put him in jail like they done me just 'cause I shove some- 
body off my foot what has a blister on my toes. Beer with me pal and 
tell the boys at the pool hall to have patience and explain to them why 
I hit the guy. 

Jail Bird, 


July 11 
Dear Sam: 

I went to court yesterday and I am now a free man but I had to 
pay for the guys hospital bill and was fined by that guy in a black 
dress a couple of times then the state fines me and I wonder if now 
maybe the govt, will not 'cause I hit the guy in a federally inspected 
car. (That is a joke.) All together I was fined 200 $ 'cause of many 
things which I done and now to top that off the president of the league 
may suspend me for the rest of the season so get the ole cue sticks out 
'cause it looks like I will have to sharpen my eye playing snooker 
instead of knocking balls over the wall. The reason it cost me so much 
in court was because I was in content of court once when I took off my 
shoes to show the fellow what was asking me questions which was 
personal and which he had no business asking me my blisters what 
the guy on the train had steped on. Them people just howled and I 
did not see nothing funny 'cause I had a hole in my socks. The fellow 
what dressed like grandma fined me again for content of the court 
when I steped on the guys toes what was asking me all them questions 
about which was none of his business. 

Mgr. Jinkle says for me not to dress out until he hears from the 
president so I guess that I will just sit at home and watch the game-, 
on the televisin set that the club give me last year when we one the 
city championship 'cause of that home run I hit with three men on 

and it sailed over the fence into a 1><>\ car. li <1<" - n<>i look like 1 will 
never hit DO more home 
what I done on the train. 

never hit no more homo runs over no fence no where again 'cause of 

Your Pal. 

Ex Big Leaguer 

July 11 
Dear Sam: 

I am out of a job because of what them dune to me and what the 
president who is a bum did to me and I am suspended for the rot of 
the season except for 2 wks. at the end of year when I nun play. Ha, 
by then I will look like a wooden fnd. from silting on the bench. I 
will be suspended without pay and will have to be under the eye of 
one of the team members at all time- even when 1 brush my teeth MgT. 
Jinkle says. I don't like this 'cause when the season is nearly over I 
will be flabby and not muscular like I am now and 1 will not be able 
to do nothing except sit on the bench. Mrg. Jinkle is not speaking to 
me unless he calls me some of them names which he always does when 
he is mad. the guy what I hit was out to collect the money from the 
< lub and the boys what seen him are not speaking to me 'cause the] 
claim the guy would not weigh 90 lbs. even if he was coated with lead. 
The boys think I should be sent to sing-sing. It has been suggested 
that I go to the place where I am always knocking something outa of 
and that I should be shot by the cops for being a mad dog and that 
even the humane society would not protect me "cause I would not come 
under the laws that they have about mad dogs. But 1 am taking it 
like I should and can nut blame them but that dumb pitcher Mulligan 
who is always laughing at me. \fter I have served m\ time I am 
going to beat hell outa him with m\ fist and get them 5 teeth which 
I ain't got yet. 

I ain't gonna write no more 'cause I got nothing to say about me 
except maybe the splinter- which I got in my rear i-nd from silting 
on the bench the next !'. wks. 

Good by budd) and tell the boys at the pool hall good b\ and 

tell them to beer with me and i<> stop sending me them sympath) cards 

trimed in black 'cause I am gonna beat the hell outa all of them not 
with cue sticks but with in\ damn fi-l which I will have MVed enough 
energl from sitting on this bench. I will write in b* wks. when I got 
something to sa\ about myself. 

' Splinter lull Of 


(Story contest winner; selected by assorted faculty members.) 
By Ned Fogler 

Christ, what a lousy feed. I wouldn't feed that stuff to a dog. 
After ninety days here it seems like they'd give me some decent food 
just once. What the Hell! It'll all be over soon. 

I wish somethin' exciting would happen around here. I'd like to 
get my hands on that lousy turnkey for about ten minutes. I'd knock 
his ears off his head. What the Hell! Where's my smokes? I guess 
I'd better buy another carton tomorrow. This is my last pack. 

Tomorrow? Wait a minute! Tomorrow's the day I get the chair. 
Yeah! Tomorrow I get the hot seat. What a hell of a thought! I 
guess those coppers expect me to break down. The punks! I'll fool 
'em. Yo* won't see me bawlin' like no nigger. Coppers! I'm a big 
man ! Yeah, I wish I was in the chair right now. I'd show 'em .... 
But the chair! That means this is it! I die! . . . just because I killed 
some small time punk that asked for it. He didn't deserve to live. He 
got on my nerves, that greasy little kyke. Yeah, him and his horned- 
rimmed glasses and that grin on his face all tha' time. Like he'd put 
something over on me and figured I was too dumb to know it! Don't 
no Jew put nuthin' over on me. That greasy little foreigner, I fixed 
him good. I knocked his ears off his head, all right. I'm not sorry 
either. I'm too big for that. Big men don't get sorry. Only thing 
that bothers me is — well, I ain't scared, but I hope it's quick. I sure 
hope it's quick. God, how I hope it's quick. Wait a minute. What 
made me say "God"? Hell, there ain't no God. Anybody with any 
sense knows that. That stuff ain't true. 

Suppose there is a God though? Then what happens to me? Ah, 
rats! If there was a God why'd he let me bump that bastard off in the 
first place? If I'm really bad like the papers say, why did God let me 
get that way? Sure, maybe I'm being fixed for what I done, but the 
laugh is on God. I fixed the Jew. What did the Jew do to God? Hey, 
maybe that's it! Maybe God really wanted to get at the Jew so he 
had me do it for him. He couldn't just come down and bump him off 
his self 'cause that wouldn't seem right to the people. But he could 
make me do it. Then why's he letting me take the rap? Ah, rats! 
This is a crazy way to think. There am't no God. There couldn't be. 
If there was, why don't he prove it sometimes? All them things he's 
supposed to have done! Nobody really knows they happened. It's 
just superstition, like goin' under a ladder, or seeing a black cat. But 
then, just supposin' for a minute that it is true. That there really is 
a God and he's waiting for me. What'll he do to me? Do you suppose 
all that stuff about burning in Hell is true? It can't be! But suppose 
it is! It wouldn't be right. It couldn't be. I can't die if it means I'd 
have to go somewhere and burn forever. Wait a minute! I gotta get 
ahold of myself. I gotta stop thinking this way or I'll crack up for 
sure. All I done was kill a little punk. Alright so I killed him! Even 

if I didn't have no right to do it, so what? I'm paving for it ain't [? 
They're giving me the chair, ain't they? Ain't that bad enough, with- 
out havin' to fry forever in Hell? The\ can't do it to me! I'll bust 
out of here. 

But even if I do, then what? I can't live forever. I'm bound to 
die sooner or later. He's hound to get me some day. But if I can onl\ 
get out now I'll make it up to Him some \\a\. I'll go straight. I'll 
do anything! Only I can't die now. Not now! 1 gotta make things 
right! 1 can't take a chance on going to Hell. It ain't right to fr\ 
forever just for killing one Jew. I gotta get out of here now! I gotta, 
or I'll go nuts! I can't die yet! Not now! I gotta square things with 
God! I can't die now! Not now! No! I can't take a chance. God. 
listen to me! If you're really up there, listen to me! Let me off this 
time, God. I swear I'll make it up to you God! I swear it. onl) let 
me off. I ain't afraid to die, God, you know that. Only I don't want 
to burn forever in Hell! Don't make me God! Oh! Dear God, help 
me, please. Listen to me! Give me a chance, God. Please listen. Let 
me out and I'll square things. I swear it. I'll see that his family's 
all right. I'll get 'em ail the dough the) need. God. I'll never kill 
anybody else. Only let me off this once. 1 ain't never ast you for 
nuthin' before, God. You know that! 

I gotta stop this. I gotta stop this or I'll go looney. I gotta do 
somethin'. I'll ast the priest to pray for me. Maybe he can get me off. 
Yeah! That's it. Maybe God'll listen to the priest. Yeah, that's it. 
Why didn't I think of that before? 

Hey guard! Guard! Send me a priest. This is important. I 
gotta work fast. I can't go to Hell! I can't! The priest'll save me. 
— yeah, he'll save me. God'll listen to him. Hey, guard, come on 
hurry up. Please hurry up. guard. I need help. 1 can't die like this. 
Yeah, the priest'll save me. Yeah, he'll save me. He's gotta! I'll make 
'em save me! Yeah that's what I'll do. I'll make Yin. He'll save me 
or I'll kill (in. ^ ei I will, by God! I'll kill Yin. He'll save me or 
I'll kill Yin! II kill Yin. I'll knock his ears off his head. He'll save 
me from Hell, or I'll kill 'cm. Yeah! That's it! Yeah! I'll kill the 
priest! Wait a minute! If I kill the priest, then there can't be no God! 
Priest's good! If I can kill Yin, that proves there ain't no God. Whj 
didn't I think of that before? If there is a God he wont let me kill 
the priest! H I can't kill the priest I'll know. Then I'll make the priest 
MVC me! Yeah. 1 knew I could figure a way to work this deal. Ha! 
I got it beat. Yeah! That's right! I got it beat! If I can't kill the 
priest. Ill make him save me! Hey guard, where's that priest? Hurry 
up! I gotta Work fast! Yeah! I got it beat! I'm a smart guy alright! 



(A Hank Lima Thriller) 

By Robert Epps 

I punched a new hole in my belt with an ice pick and tightened it 
another notch. Cynically, I observed the diplomas on the wall of my 
office. Hank Lima, Private Obicularis-Palprebrarum (distinguishing 
me from the common Private Eye) . It took three months of intensive 
study through my mailing course to get that sheepskin, and besides 
that, my Counter-Spy badge was placed in a prominent spot on my 
lapel. But even with these recommendations, I had not eaten in well 
over a month. 

Trying to take my mind off my hunger, and the two buzzards 
that took turns peering through my window, I mulled over my latest 
case, smiling as I reviewed how I had spotted the murderer seven pages 
ahead of Perry Mason. 

A knock on the door broke my reverie. "The unemployment agency 
is down the hall," I hollered automatically. But the knocking persisted, 
and, aided by a nip in the pants by a buzzard who was getting tired 
of waiting, I leaped from my chair and opened the door. 

In walked a small man, undistinguished except for a baize beard, 
accompanied by the customary beautiful blond you always find in pri- 
vate eye stories. "Come in, come in!", I called, fighting back a wharf 
rat with a lead pipe. "These playful mice!", I cried jokingly, as the 
filthy little animal bit the pipe in half and sidled off, munching it. 

Throwing the telephone (a paper prop) into the wastebasket, I 
dusted off a space on my desk and beckoned them to sit down. Men- 
tally undressing the woman, I casually picked up a cigarette butt off 
the floor, and lit it by rubbing two of my ribs together and causing a 

"I am in trouble," the man said. "No other detective was hebete- 
dinous enough to take this case, so I came to you." I thanked him, 

"My name," he continued, "is Professor Julius 0. Baum, of the 
Atomic Baums. I have just completed work on a new weapon five 
times as dangerous than the H-Bomb, and twice as deadly as a woman 
scorned. Enemy agents may try to get information on this weapon 
through my daughter here. Your job is to guard her twenty-four hours 
a day." 

Calculating rapidly, I figured that there were twelve hours of day 
and twelve hours of night, so if I were to watch her all twenty-four 

"You will keep vigil in a room adjoining hers at night," the pro- 
fessor exclaimed, stopping my drooling almost instantly. "Then is 
when the enemy will try to close in. I suggest we leave for my house 


Nothing happened on the way to his mansion to arouse my sus- 
picion, except that a man in dark glasses slipped into a black car with 
the steering wheel on the right hand side and followed us. and a heli- 
copter flying overhead repeatedly tried to snare our auto with a grap- 
pling hook. 

Arriving at the mansion, she headed for her room, he headed for 
the library, and I headed for the kitchen. I ate everything in sight, 
including, I fear, the cook. After completely gorging myself, I rolled 
into the library, where I was to meet the household stall. 

They were introduced to me by the professor as Vassilv. the butler, 
who had a copy of the Daily Worker in his pocket; Josef, the gardener, 
who spoke in a clipped Russian accent which he accomplished quite 
skillfully with a pair of scissors; Hilda, the chambermaid, whom I 
mentally undressed, automatically: and Hans, the footman (joke) who 
spoke perfect English despite his claim that he came from Savannah. 

After all introductions were made and everyone was standing 
around stupidly, trying to think of something witty to say, a bullet 
whistled past my head and imbedded itself in the far wall. That was 
my cue for a pun: "The bullet must have been whistling at you two 
girls," I said, smiling at the professor's blond daughter and the young 
chambermaid, "instead of me, since both of you are far more beautiful 
than I." They smiled, blushingly. "Although." 1 continued. "I am 
by no means an ugly person. If that missle was a lady bullet, say a 
.5 Millie-meter, then it may have been whistling at me. after all." 

Everyone laughed appreciatively, I bowed low from the waist in 
modest response just as another bullet whistled past my ear and took 
off part of my raccoon collar. "This thing has gone fur enough." 1 
cried. "We'd better close these windows. Land's sakes. it's not safe 
for body or soul with people taking shots at you," I said, quoting one 
of my late grandmother's axioms. Grandmother, it will be recalled, 
was murdered in cold blood, but not until she had picked off four of 
the posse from her cabin. 

To cut down the danger of flying bullets. I ordered Vassilv. the 
240-pound butler, to close the windows. He refused. I insisted. He 
refused again. I insisted, heatedly. 

After the swelling had gone down, and I had finished closing the 
windows, the professor led me to my room, which was located next to 
his daughter's. After several unsuccessful attempt! to hack through 
the wall, I pulled off my tuxedo and football cleats and climbed into bed. 

I was almost asleep when a scream rent the air. "Blast those radio 
in\sier\ programs,* 1 I muttered, pulling the pillow over mj head. Three 
more screams followed the first, an even dozen shots rang out, the 
burglar alarm s\stem started ringing, and the watchdogs proceeded 
to start barking like things gone mad. I decided to investigate. 

1 rushed out into the hall where Hilda, the chambermaid, was run- 
ning around hysterically shouting, "The mistress! She is gone! She 
is gone! Do something, do something!" 


A quick search of the blond's room (I might as well tell you her 
name. It was Talullah, but remember — I saw her first, so don't try 
anything funny) showed that she was indeed gone. My usual thorough 
search revealed that she was not under the bed, in the closet, or (drat 
the luck) behind the shower curtain. 

By this time, everyone had gathered in the room. "She's gone," 
I said, striking what I felt was a very dramatic pose. I ran my hand 
through my hair, adding the pungent smell of Vitalis to the surround- 
ing atmosphere. 

"This," I said, "is an inside job." All looked astounded. "How 
do you know?", the professor asked. "Because," I said, "in every 
mystery I have read, things like this were always inside jobs. Must we 
be different?" 

All nodded assent to my theory, marvelling at my brilliance. "But," 
I said, "who is the guilty party? If he will speak up now, this story 
will be cut in half." No one spoke, though I saw Vassily and the house- 
cat change a meaningful glance. 

"Everyone line up," I said, "for a thorough search." The chamber- 
maid giggled. "On second thought," I said, "everyone will leave but 
. . . er . . . Hilda, here. I would like to question her in private. Heh, 
heh, heh." Everyone filed out of the room except Hilda. She leaned 
against the bureau, smiling naughtily. I walked forward casually, my 
outward composure broken only by spasmodic jerks of my left elbow 
and knee. 

Just as I was preparing to start my "questioning", she whipped 
out a gun. "All right, you fool," she hissed (meaning me, since there 
was no one else in the room), "turn around and walk down those stairs 
to that black car parked outside or I'll deliver you to the undertakers 
de-livered." Feeling those small intestines twitching inside of me, I 
walked downstairs to the car. No one in the house became suspicious, 
though the professor remarked to Hilda that that was a pretty gun she 
was poking me in the back with. She thanked him, modestly. 

Just as I was climbing into the auto, a heavy object landed on my 
head. I fell to the floor, dazed. I didn't know who was in the car, 
but I recognized a pair of shoes poking in my face as having come 
from Alan Barry's. We rode for miles, with the monotony broken only 
by periodic thuds accompanied by cries of human agony, which in- 
dicated that a woman was driving the car, probably Hilda. 

Presently, the car drew to a stop. "Okay, you," somebody said, 
"pile out." I climbed to my feet. The smell of salt air told me we 
were near an ocean. 1 was dashed to the ground by a large wave, 
augmenting my theory. The buzz of horse flies was almost deafening. 
"Tybee," I thought automatically. 

They led me to a small, dimly-lit cabin, where I was thrust into 
a corner next to a girl who was sitting with her head buried in her 
arms, weeping. I couldn't see her face, but recognized her by my 


mental-undress process as Talullah. "Talullah. * I whispered. She 
looked up quickly. "Hank, darling." she cried, throwing herself into 
my arms. "Darling," I whispered hoarsely, holding her tightK. 

(For the benefit of those who cant understand wh\ we < ailed each 
other "darling" after a one-day acquaintance: hell, we've got to speed 
up the action or The Mercury wont accept this thing.) 

"So," Hilda exclaimed, "the lovers do not know what is in store 
for them." 

"Shaddup," came a heavy voice, and a loud slap sent Hilda reding, 
uith topspin, into the far corner where she folded into a heap. "Not 
even Alan Ladd treats his girls this bad." she sobbed, then proceeded 
to shed tears like a broken fire hose. 

"Zo," said the heavy voice again, and I recognized the speaker 
as a heavy man, "ve haff not only de brofessors daughter but efen do 
snooping detekifT. Hah! Now ve haff brofessor where ve vant him! 
Hee hee hee, hah hah II AH !" 

"You can laugh now." I said, peering through slit e\elids like I 
saw Rory Calhoun do in The Mysterious Island, "but justice will pre- 
vail in the end, as it always does." 

With a snarl, the hea\y man walked over to where I sat on the 
floor and aimed a vicious kick at me. but his hobnailed boot caught 
Talullah on the side of the head with a cracking sound. "Hah!". I said 
triumphantly, "missed me!" 

"Ve haff no time to beat the brisonera, a female voice interjected. 
"Ve must moof and moof quickly. Warn the brofessor that if he docs 
not turn over the papers on his discos cry in \ un hour, both his daughter 
and the detektiff v i 11 die!" 

"Now see here, sugar,* 1 1 said, stalling for Time (though I prefer 
Newsweek), "You can't get a\\a\ with this. Why, I'll bet right now 
that there are 5,000 cops within a radius of one mile of this place. If 
you let us go, I'll see that you get a light sentence, sa\ forty-to-fift\ 
years at semi-hard laboi 

"Ach." broke in another voice (all these accents -omul like an open 
forum on the 1 . N. Moon. "/.•■ man i-- King." 

"Vclh. veil) soll\." chimed in an Oriental voice, "lint must ask 

all to be quiet.* 1 

"Ah, yer fodder's rickshaw !" broke in Bomebodj else, "you Chinese 
Communists give me the Red!" 

This Bon of scintillating conversation was halted abruptly by the 

ringing of the telephone "Ja?" answered the German (or was it the 
Russian?! "Oh. I zee. 1 zee." He turned to the other-. "Ze boss is 
on ze o/.zer end. He has been capture hy Be police! He iss using their 
phone to call us. He sa\s ve must get awa\ I ' 


All scrambled madly through the door, but staccato bursts of 
machine-gun fire outside told me that the police had got my tip. They 
were cleaning up the conspirators with alacrity and dispatch, besides 
doing a quick and efficient job. 

Later, we were all gathered in the brofessor's — pardon, professor's 
— library, talking over what had happened. "But darling," Talullah 
asked, "how did you know Hilda, the chambermaid, was a spy?" 

"Easy enough," I answered modestly. "In mentally undressing 
her, I noticed a note hidden in an interior hiding place. The writing 
on it gave instructions on capturing you. I let them go through with 
it to find their hideout. I tipped the police to follow us out there." 

Talullah got up from her chair and moved toward me. I took 
her in my arms. "Darling!" we whispered in unison. 

I decided to play a little joke on her. Pulling back, I cried in 
mock severity: "But what will my wife think of this?" She looked 
at me, tears forming in her eyes. "I don't know," she said, "but my 
husband, who just walked in, isn't going to like it worth a damn." 



By Mary Morekis 

I'm old. pushin' nirfty. I got to walk with a cane. You got to walk 
with a cane, too, huh? Well! Do you eat rice and white meat ev'rj 
mawning for breakfast? Have you got a gray mule, and kin you spit 
tobaccy right square in the middle of thet spittoon? No? See there, 
thet just goes to show you ain't a country cracker like you make out 
to be. 

But niver mind, hit don't matter. Set ya self down and lemme 
tell ya' 'bout the time ma neighbors decided to run me for the State 
Legislaychur — I'll niver git over thet! 

Lemme see, it must ha' been 'bout five o" sis \iar ago, when ma' 
danged knee fir>-t started givin' me trouble. I 'member I ambled over 
to the bus depot to see how ma neighbors was liein" treated when thet 
<>!e wrinkled "hounddawg" Pitchier shouted at me, "Speakin" of the 
devil! We was jist discussin' you, Same Tatum, you ole sunavagun! 
You have been 'lei ted bj unanimous vote as the lesser of the evils from 
our county to run for the State Legislaychur in November. Ain't got 
no objections, have ya? Huh?" 

"What? Me runnin' for State Legislaychur? Laud, man, you 
scare me! Why, I ain't no politiehun. You jist lemme set on me I 
like I'm doin' now and I'll sta\ happy "till the day the Lawd beckons. 
I'm too old to go after mo" trouble.'" I was realK surprised tho". at 
that there sudden hon'r bestowed upon me by ma' neighbors. I reck- 
oned it woulda been fun to run for the sake a runnin', but Hell, a man's 
not a man no mo" after his hair- tinned gra\ and his kneefl wobble. 
Haw! Me. of al] people, to run for a state office? What do you say to 
thet, huh? (Really cainl help a-smilin' at the thought.) 

But them jackasses couldn't take "no" for an answer. 

"Sam Tatum.'" Dan Barker, owner of the depot and the younj 
of the men. shouted at me. "your objections ain't withstanding, you're 
runnin" an) how." 

"Shut lip, Barker, and lei Sam make an acceptance speech."" Pitch- 
ier chimed, pultin" his bonj arm round me. 

"Acceptance speech?"" I yelled. "Son, 1 cain't go through with 

it — I'm no orator. I'm ji<-t " 

"The 1 1 ell \ a ain't, latum. Youi objections ain't convincing enough 
so gil up on t!ii- grapefruit box and give at a speech. Make it short 
an' rousin' an' inspirational." interrupted Barker. 

"Shore, you cain'l let us down. Sam." said ma Brother-in-law 
Carter, "not seein" that we put so niueh tru-i in you." 

\nd old Pitchier cut in again. "After all. Sam. our counts i- the 
I ■< I in the state, so we gotta keep it thata way. We can do it only by 


puttin' in the most fir men and you oughta feel flattered that we se- 
lected you as one of 'em." 

Well, dad-blame them, I was flattered! So I got up on thet grape- 
fruit box and tole 'em what wonderful neighbors they was, how tickled 
pink I was to oblige 'em by runnin', how I'd give 'em all pensions and 
free grazin' lands for their milkers an' springers when I reached the 
State Capitol, how happy ma woman would be to hear what a man-of- 

the-world her husband is, and, and, , oh, you know what-all poli- 

tishuns say when they wanta win an 'lection — all thet hawg-callin' and 
yap-yap stuff thet don't mean a damn thing! 

Anyway, they all fell fer it, and you shoulda heerd the clappin' 
and stompin' and cheerin' thet went on when I stepped down. And 
confound it! There was a crowd of folk gathered 'round thet I ain't 
noticed before, which made me feel fine. I guess I was a politishun 
after all! 

But jist as I was really feelin' proud there come along somethin' 
which kicked the goodness from under me jist like ma gray mule, 
Jeannie, kicked ma spotted hound when the stupid critter chased her 
colt. (By the way, ma Jeannie's gonna have another colt right soon 
now. ) 

What happened was dandy young Cray Sheffield came up when 
he heerd I was speech-makin' and roused up a few of his followers to 
start shoutin' 'gainst me when I stepped down. Ya see, Sheffield was 
plannin' to run for the Legislaychur too, since old Harry Sattler, rep- 
resentin' our county, was plannin' to quit. Thet rascal of a pig Shef- 
field! He thought he had the 'lection in the bag, but when he heerd 
I was a-givin' 'em comp'tion, he broke his neck tryin' to keep 'head o' 
me. Haw! I was at the finish line befo' he even heerd the startin' 

But niver mind, I didn't car how much they shouted 'gainst me. 
I'd already thought out big plans. Yep! I was gonna sell ma farm 
and livestock — (I'd keep ma mule, though, and a few hounds). An' 
I was gonna take ma old lady with me to live in class up at State 
Capitol— who gives a hoot 'bout this simple country life, anyway? 
'Tain't nothin' to it. An' I started makin' big plans for ma campayne, 
too. Why, with ma neightbors' help, I could arrange a political rally 
out at Jenkin's Camp Grounds twenty-five miles out and could really 
show this danged town a thing or two! 

And, friend, we did have thet rally like I said we would. Ma old 
woman made all the eats, ma neighbors made the signs and I made all 
the speeches! We were right pretty politishuns, 'cause besides a plat- 
form promisin' pensions and more and better grazin' lands, we cir- 
culated papers tellin' ev'rybuddy all 'bout ma life hist'ry so they'll know 
me and not Sheffield was the fittest man, and I had a motto, too, 


Everjbuddy was asayin' it! "Hooray, Uncle Sammy Wins Today**. 
And they even had a song "bout me. Lemme see. here's the wa\ it 
went — 

"Young folks, old folks, e\"r\ buddy come. 
Join Uncle Sammy's party and have a lot of fun. 
Chuck your troubles and gray mules at the door. 
And hear a "revelation" the) you oiver heerd befoV 

Of course, thet "revelation" was a hot one — . I was >brewd enough 
to find out thet Cray Sheffield was oncet caught fer bootleggin' in this 
here county, which you know is dry. So when the people would find 
out he was a law-breaker and a jail bird. tbe\ shore wasn't gonna vote 
fer "im. 



Here are the poets: 





Some are short, 

Some are tall, 
For all their guts 

You should like 'em all. 




Hound! Now that ye have done thy great orbit 
Through fields and tracts in chase of hares. 
And pointed quail and birds as they did sit. 
And oft have trailed the bobtail to his lair 
Baying loudly as though glad ye hurried, 
Thump not thy ragged tail on earth so cold. 
Hang not thy gre) head with l< >< >k >n worried. 
Bare not thy broken teeth, yellow and old, 
At the approach of him, the Grim Reaper. 
Who now that happy days afield are through 
Will take thy chain and then become thy keeper 
And lead thee to great clouded fields anew. 
fear not, old Spot, that hunting days are done, 
In lives to come ye might then aim the gun. 



"Oh Mom! My pals — and they ain't gals. 

Have come to play some ball. 
Where is my hat — my ball and bat? 

\t<u say they're in the hall?" 

"' \\v. come on Mack and Joe and Jack. 

Don't be so doggone slow! 
We've gotta win this game today. 

It tells the tale, you know." 

"Oh Mom. some pie." Butch heaved a sigh. 

"Would help us win that game." 
The pie was got; it helped a lot, 

To carry them to fame. 

The game began: they kicked up sand. 

And played their very best. 
Butch bit the ball: far did it fall. 

lie ran — filled up with zest. 

Ninth inning came — they'd earned their fame. 

They'd won the game — and how ! 
It '| time to go — they're walking slow. 

They're going to Butch's now. 


Yes, Mom was waiting at the door. 

She knew what to expect. 
Her lovely son — his game had won; 

But gosh! Was he a wreck! 


One eye was blue — a blackish blue. 

"No, Mom, it doesn't hurt. 
A fella tripped me on a base; 

I fell right in the dirt!" 

Joe's lip was split — Mom got the kit, 

And used her best first aid. 
Mack's leg was hurt — and smeared with dirt. 

On first base he was "laid". 

And as for Jack — he did not lack, 

A mark of that great game. 
Despite their luck — he didn't duck! 
His teeth are not the same. 

"Oh boys, I don't know what to say!" 

Butch's mother began to cry. 
"But since you've won your game today 

I'll give you some more pie." 


The keeper led me to my room, 

A dark and dismal cell. 
I looked around the place of gloom, 

And screamed a useless yell. 

"It's not my fault that I am here!" 

I shouted loud and long. 
I tried to make myself quite clear 

To the feeble-minded throng. 

"At one time, friends, I was all right. 

I lived as others do. 
But then one day out went a light: 

And now I act like you. 

"It all began at school one day, 
When I found I had to take Math. 

And so my hair began to gray 

As I journeyed that onerous path. 


"I sat in class both scared and glum. 

(I can't add four and four.) 
I studied 'til my brain was numb, 
And then studied some more. 

"I tried to learn to cube and square: 

1 tried to learn to graph; 
I saw Math symbols everywhere; 

I had nightmares of Math. 

"I counted problems every night. 

I tried to count white sheep. 
But problems popped up left and right. 

Until I fell asleep. 

"Nice, pleasant dreams I tried to find, 

But I continued to dream of Math. 
1 dreamed my house was a terrible kind 

Of house 'cause it could be graphed. 

"Its windows were squared and so were its doors. 

This left no room for walls. 
Exponents were lights and coefficients were floors. 

But put under radicals were halls. 

"At last I awoke — a blessing indeed. 

But 1 found I had lost my mind. 
But because of thai dream — from Math I am freed. 

And I'm glad that my mind is now blind. 

"I know you have bats in your belfry. 

But. you see, I have some, too. 
And since you've listened so attentively, 

I'll work some math problems for you." 



me people <lc> all the ?:i\ ing, 
Some do all the receii ing, 

And othen neither receive nor give. 

Some give to receive, and don't receive; 
They feel cheated. 

The) didn't give. 
Some give because they have received: 
They just repay; 

They reciproi ate. 


Some are too proud to give, 
And some — ashamed to give. 

Some receive to give, and don't give; 
They are so worried about giving that 
They don't give from inside. 
They only receive. 

And feel cheated. 
Some receive only because they have given ; 
They just receive as a favor. 
They condescend. 

And they never receive. 
Some are too proud to receive, 
And some — ashamed to receive. 

It is as hard to receive as it is to give. 
A gracious faithful giver is welMoved; 
A gracious faithful receiver is well-loved; 
Giving and receiving are one. 


There are all kinds of people in the world. 
The smallest are those that hide. 

Some hide behind books, some behind bars, 

And some in the sunshine,. 

Some hide in the rain; some behind desks, some in 
the fog. 
They help because no one understands them. 
Some act big; they fool themselves that they are. 
They act grown up — by playing with dolls in secret. 

They don't really want to grow up. 

They'd rather pretend to be adults, 
Than go back into hiding. 

They don't want to be understood, 
So no one understands them. 
They're afraid of being understood. 
They have a big mystery all their own 
That wisest men cannot unravel. 

Is it worse to try and not understand 

Or to try to be misunderstood? 

Misunderstanding themselves. 

Poor little people 

Only God understands 

And they're afraid of God — 

Or they wouldn't be little people 


All things arc outside, little people. 
There are sun and rain: books and reality. 
There are bars and fog and clear weather. 
But you can't hide in one all the time. 
People don't live in Victoria's ballroom : 
They don't need a bar between them and the mirror; 
They aren't always in the fog, 
Nor are they alwa\s in clear weather: 

They don't always have to have sunshine. 
But take what comes in their stride. 
Little people aren't really people. 
Not even to themseh i b. 

Thc\'re just like their dolls, 
And dolls aren't people. 
They don't have feelings, and they live in doll-houses. 
You can't hide from God in your inventions. 
You can live honcstb with people. 
You can be big people, and you must, 
Or your opaque glass will (rack 
And show your emptiness 
And your dolls, 
Little people. 


My ship is sailing out upon the sea. 

The sea is great, ami -hips arc \er\ small. 

Tall waves and galea arc in the wake behind: 

They loom ahead and on all side- at once. 

Sound .... resound, break on deck and sides, 

The scuppers run knee-high in froth) green: 

Salt spray drops down from yard and masthead-light. 

The sun is hid behind a curtain grey, 

And sounds that arc not there creep from the fog 

In foreign, thrilling whispers, from the deep. 

The heart of the ocean pounds and throbs and skips. 

There- something there that mak<'- it pond to live, 

That is the total sum of human thought: 

A ray of hope, a touch of dark de-pair — 
\ mar o'crwhclming wave that throw- up spiav 
To make a rainbow's bed above the mast. 
1 am a part of it. and it of me. 
I fed the pounding, surging ocean's mar. 
The shreaking, howling laughter of the gale. 
There's something there that drive- the coward out 
Ami puts a solid core into a man. 


I lay the helm down hard and hear the brunt; 
A salty wall comes crashing to the deck 
And tumbles to the scupper on the lee. 
Now it is gone. But others loom ahead 
For faith and skill to conquer as the past. 

I ask no quarter of the honest sea. 
The sea is great and ships are very small — 
But other ships have run this course of mine 
And carried human cargo safely through. 
Besides, I trust the sea. Why shouldn't I? 
It gives its love to those who give it love. 
Its hate to those who faint before the swell. 

I don't go with the sea or with the wind, 
Yet wind and sea propel me on my way 
And give me exercise that proves my faith. 


The lady got into her car and drove away. 
She was a nice lady . . . out of her car. 
She'd say, "Pardon me," when offensive 
While she walked on the sidewalk; 
"Please" to clerks in stories. 

But now her fiery stallion leapt into the traffic: 
"My, she has loud horns on that crate," one said. 
"Lookit her run that light!" "Look out, mister!" 
"Bingo!" She did it that time, for sure!" 
"... Wonder if he's kilt?" 

The child's white face looked like an angel's, 
Except for that scarlet patch .... 

Inside the car, an age-old instinct had gripped her. 
She was thrilled, an animal while alone — 
For she wasn't alone enough. 

Her feelings were condensed by the mob's push. 

She had to blow off steam. 

People like that need a co-pilot, 

But two can't sit behind one wheel .... 
This is the Twentieth Century, A. D. 
It isn't Four Million, B. C. 
But some regress 

Behind the wheels and the throttles. 

She was pathetically sorry . . . and awful nice . . . 




So long did I hut worship from afar. 
You are to me the presence of a star. 
You were my strong desire. m\ onlj dream, 
A star that shines upon a lonely stream. 

When I hut looked upon your gentle face, 
And saw your simple l>eaut\ >o demure. 
No gesture, manner, word thai lacked in grace. 
Then did I know my love wa> strong and pure. 
Our meeting surely was all prearranged. 

For when I spoke to you you made replies. 
You felt the force our feelings interchanged, 
Two must fill this realm which passion ties. 
I love you only — now I can confide, 
Mv stirring passion comes from deep inside. 



By Marianne Boblasky 

The crowd cheers as their favorite contestants walk down the aisle. 
The two enter the ring and go to their corners. The big bout is ready 
to begin. The opponents are warming up; soon the gong will give the 
signal. Silence falls over the crowd as the referee announces the two 
famous opponents. In this corner is Kid Realism, power-packed and 
full of new enthusiasm. A newcomer to the ring, but one with a great 
future. In the opposite corner we have Mighty Romanticism who de- 
fends the title. This man has the advantage of age and experience, but 
is fast losing his standing to the up-and-coming generation. This is 
going to be a close fight, ladies and gentlemen. 

The bell rings and the two come in punching. Mighty Romanticism 
is first to strike. Every muscle in his well-formed body is strained. It 
is a body built up through his ardent love of nature and the outdoors. 
He moves in perfect harmony, as though entranced by fleeting music. 
He is magnificent; he seems to have stepped from some ancient myth 
or lovely tale. This man is a great favorite of the people. What an 
individualist! He revolts against authority, and never fears criticism 
from the powerful paper The Social Conventions. Like any fighter, he 
reacts to his emotions rather than to reason. He is assured by his many 
fans, renewed by their undying faith. We look out over the crowd 
and see that they are all here tonight. Right up front are Keats, Shelley, 
and Wadsworth. How loyal they are! 

The bell rings for round two. The crowd is tense. Kid Realism 
looks full of pep, and Mighty Romanticism is not so fast. Looks as 
though the Kid is getting the upper hand. Notice the direct meaning 
he puts into those punches. Every blow counts. You can almost feel 
them; they are so real. He certainly is putting the crowd on their toes. 
There is no idealization to his style, only pure representation. He 
carries amazing strength in his unrhymed and irregular movements. 
Again and again he uses the same punches. The repetition is stunning 
his opponent. He seems to have his plan all set up, almost catalogued. 
The bell rings and our man keeps going. No stopping him now. We 
see the famous Mr. Ibsen giving him a few words of encouragement. 

This has been a close race, ladies and gentlemen. The judges are 
having trouble with the decision. Wait — -the decision is here. The 
judges have decided upon a tie! 

The crowd is cheering and demanding a return match. Only the 
future can answer their question. Who is the master of the ring? 



This was written between phone calls at the Savannah Morning; 
News; thus the inconsistency in verb tenses and the plot in general, if 
there be any plot at all. Also, it was written on two typewriters. I'er- 
haps this is the reason for the change of the author's moods. 

Frankly, it is the worst thing I have ever written. It lacks every- 
thing that would make an interesting (readable anyway) story. It is 
partially factual. Maybe that would add a dash of salt to flavor it. Hie 
more rewrites uould do the trick, but, egotistical as I am. I refuse to 
alter another sentence or insert another period. The more I play with 
it the worse my grammar gets. If you care to tamper with it. you may 
do so at your own discretion. The sky is the grammatical limit when 
writing in the vernacular. 

Well, aint we all looking for the easy way out? 

IF you can use it, I uould like for you to insert the following title: 


(No more apologies to Ring Lardner. Why should he care? ) 

If you cant use it, please mail it hark to me as we are running 
out of Srottissue at this establishment 

Thanking you, 

They say I am Arthur Whitfield 

Over here at my house things got to the point where Pa didn't 
feel like talking to nobody and Ma felt like saying less than that. It 
wasn't 'cause Pa's royal mone\ what he got for inventing the tractor 
carhorator ran out. Anyway, Ma alwa\s thought that somehodx would 
invent another carhorator hetter than his before his patent got dry. No, 
it wasn't that the chips didn't flow past our doorwaxs so often. Course 
I had my ideas ahout the set-up hut Ma would never let my ideas have 
time to develop. 

Several months ago when I was sitting on the front porch talking 
to Ma ahout us being down in the dumps la figure of a speech Pa use i 
Ma looked around like she wanted to make sure that we were alone then 
turns to me and says, "You know son. them temperance people ain't 
putting up enough of a fight. That's what it is. son." 

Of course me heing a little young and ignorant and not letting 
temperance get on my nerves kinda kept me from understanding Ma. 

"Yes sir," she said, driving a pointed match stick into a holey 
tooth, "It ain't nothing what would do your Pa hetter than to run off 
a few gallons of brew in an old dirty hathtuh. Why he's been walking 
around here like he was the leading man in a male funeral." 

"You must realize," I told my Ma. "that I haven't heen living with 
you and Pa all your lives and they's some things what don't register 
with me." 

"Son," she says, smiling like I said something which ain't exactly 
true, "you was six years old when we had prohibition run out on us, 
leaving the whole family unemployed." 

"Ma," I says, reminiscing, "all I can remember is them brown 
and white jugs Pa used to keep locked up in that old cellar. Used to 
stink worse than rotten eggs in a fish market." 

"They's a lot you got to learn about life, son," she says. "Course, 
temperance is all a lot of history now and the people who write the 
school books overlook a few important items about how good prohibi- 
tion was to some people .... like us for instance. Don't get me wrong. 
I don't feel it's right to take away temptation from people. It's like 
making all the men be in love with their wives and never want to fool 
with other women. If we ain't got temptation we ain't got nothing to 
brag about overcoming, have we, son?" 

"I don't understand, Ma," I says, not understanding. "What has 
prohibition got to do with married men going with other women who 
ain't their wives?" 

Ma kinda looked about the yard one time like she always looks 
when she don't want Pa to hear nothing what she says. "That's like 
saying what's loaded pistols got to do with shooting bullets." She 
winked at me like she had just outwitted Eisenhower in Europe and 
was saving the news for next week's papers. Personally I don't think 
Ma could outwit a puppet with no strings attached to it. But that ain't 
got no baring on her future plans. Trying to change Ma is like trying 
to change a red light by blowing on your auto horn. 

When Ma starts talking in them circles they's nothing left to do 
but change the subject. But not wanting to change the subject I thought 
I'd just try to steer away from her philosophy and stick to the bear 
facts. "Tell me more about the days of prohibition and temperance 
what we was talking about in the first place," I says. 

"The whole idear son," she says, "is that we all made good during 
the days when they was a law against making the stuff. Your Pa and 
me would both pitch in and mix up enough booze to keep the Missouri 
off all the mud piles in the world. Had a good business even if we 
did start off with just a neighborhood trade. People got wind of our 
stuff after awhile and after that we had a time keeping up with our 
customers' orders. And the funny thing about it was Pa going on the 
wagon when we went in business. Maybe it was because he thought 
all the spirits that was made in them days was like ours, not that I 
minded taking a little now and then." 

"Pa always was peculiar, wasn't he Ma," I says, believing every 
word of it. "We must of made a lot of money then, eh?" 


"Well. son. we couldn't help ourselfs. Now if them temperance 
people would get ba< k prohibition for us we could go back in buainen 
and get rich all over again. Matter of fact 1 wouldn't mind running 
off a little just for the fun of it." 

I noticed a queer look smatter her face and then she Btaited rub- 
bing her hands together like she does when Pa lias embarrased her in 
public and she just can't wait to get him home! 

When Pa got home that evening from Ed Doty's wake Ma didn't 
waste any time in reminding him of the past and sort of forcing him 
to agree they were the good old days for our family. "Just think. Pa, 
everybody in the family will be employed if we get back Prohibition." 

Pa just smiled and walked upstairs to the bathroom what has the 
big bathtub in it. The one downstairs has not got a bath tub and 
what it does have would not be big enough to hold much of what we 
would need to make to build up a good trade. 

After a little wile Pa strolls back downstairs with a sly look that 
means the family brain machinery has gone to work for a change. "We 
ain't gonna get back prohibition." he says. "Everything is getting too 
damn legal these days. Hut that ain't gotta stop us from having a little 
fun so's to break up the monotny — just so long's we keep our noses 
clean with the law." 

Ma sat down to think but soon gave it up and started to talking 
again which is the easiest thing for any woman to do what hasn't gol 
no sense which is the case with most persons of the opp. gender. "Do 
you think we can remember that formula we used a long time ago to 
make the neighborhood trade bloom?" she said. 

Pa didn't answer but waited a few minutes and sa\s. "We got to 
keep this thing quiet so the\ won't be no chanct of the law breathing 
down our necks with its bad breath." 

I and Ma nod. 

"Second thing." he sa\s. "we onl\ make what we can tl i ink. 

"Rut we ain't got but one bathtub," says Ma. 

"I lot damn." sa\s I. 

"Third." Pa says, "nobod\ outside of this house even tastes it, 

They'a a thing called pride and Ma's got a lot of it. Course she 
sulks jusl because if we have a successful test run she won't be able 

to let our neighborhood friends taste it. But Pa reminds her that most 
of the good people in our neighborhood are Freemasons who wouldn't 
touch die stuff with a ten-foot pole if we ran a pipe through everybody's 
back yard. \n\ua\ il ain't no fun in touching something with a ten- 
foot pole unless it's a snake. Ma fines through the usual period of time 
which a woman goes through when she's sulking cause she can't get 
what she wants. So after about 2 min. she calms down and Pa goes on. 


"Last, but not least," says Pa, remembering an old pbrase, "the 
temptation to go into business must be overcome by us all. Remember 
that we are gonna do this for fun." 

"No money? Ma says. 

"No Money. Just for fun and that's final," he says finally. 

* * * 

A couple of months later we went to visit Pa in the city jail where 
he was locked up for having unstamped liquor in a suitcase the night 
he went to the policeman's ball over in Grove City. 

The jailer is a big fellow who knows all about Pa's case cause he 
used to be in that business a long time ago before he got a job on the 
police force. Just the same he won't mention ever making the stuff 
although we all know about him. 

"I see your old man's still got it in his blood," says the jailer to 
Ma who up to now doesn't pay him much mind. 

"For your information he never drank that much," says Ma, giv- 
ing him a dirty look that would make the Washington monument need 
a scrubbing. 

He laughs and says, "I don't mean it that way. I mean he still had 
the old knack to make the stuff." 

"And I still got the knack to slap your face if you say that any 
more," grumbles Ma. 

"No heart feelings," smiles the man through his false teeth that 
could use a scrubbing themselfs. 

We walk a little ways down the long hall with all the bars in it. 
I mean the kinds of bars that hold a person back which is different 
from the kind of place that Pa tried to put out of business. 

Pretty soon we met Pa in a little room where they let you talk 
to guests of the place. Pa don't look as sad as I figured he'd look and 
Ma didn't even offer her sympathy. 

"Hello," says Pa. 

*<V >/,v% ^ J Toffweren't slick enough, Pa. Now I got to carry on the trade 
by myself. By the time you get out of here we'll be able to retire," 
Ma predicts. 

So now we are expecting Pa home at any time as he only got a 
light sentence from the judge who happened to have been one of our 
customers back in the twenties. And when you go to court some time 
look at the way the judge takes his "cough syrup" from that little bottle. 

We made it. 




This is truly a bounteous land in which we live. But a land can 
only provide what its people will: the real blessings are products of (he 
thoughts of men and of the labors that are in turn products of men's 
thought. A nation is only great and strong and free as the hearts and 
minds of its people are great and strong and free. 

The I nited Stales, probabl) more than any other nation of con- 
sequence in todax's shadowed world, has sought to preserve a founda- 
tion of truth upon which to build. The fathers of this nation realized 
that truth is the onlj anchor that prevails against the surge of the shift- 
ing sands of time. A nation, as an individual, must never deny the 
truth. The words of an old adage still ring true: "They shall know 
the truth, and the truth shall make them free." 

Sometimes, however, groups of individuals rationalize a situation 
so that black literally becomes white. It would be disastrous if the 
captain of a ship refused to believe his eyes when shoals appeared 
dead ahead. Good captains set the general course of our ship of state 
some one hundred and sixlv years ago. but we who live now must keep 
the log and man the helm. Washington. Jefferson, and Franklin dead- 
reckoned our course, but we must use our own sextant to check our 
position: they left us aboard a tight hull, but we must patch and paint 
to preserve it as a bulwark between us and the sea. We cannot hide 
our mediocrit) behind the gleaming shield of our fathers' greatness. 
We are not great and honorable because the) were ureal and honorable. 
Our shield must be one of our own manufacture. Neither are we great 
and honorable and truth-loving because we say we are these things. A 
nation is not great because its builders were great: it is only great 
because its living adults are great, and it will only be as great as the 
children of these adults make it. 

The course of a democracy is the resultant course of the sum-total 
of the wills of its people. Individuals make a democracy what it is — 
not one 01 Iv*". but «// the individuals. Believers in this form of gov- 
ernment maintain that the majorit) always chooses what is best for a 
nation. This idea has been carried over into the government of those 
engaged in the pursuit of higher learning. High schools and colleges 
in man) cities find that students respond favorablv when they are trusted 
w ith responsibility . 

This responsibility is borne from the facultye to the students by an 
honor system. An honoi sv>tem give> the individual student the oppor- 
tunity to prove that he is capable of self -government . ..or that he is 
incapable of following the leadership of those who set the standard 
that we profess to follow. Honor systems can and will work onlv when 
their student custodians make them work. At the University of Virginia 
the students maintain their honor system with virtually no help from 
the faculty. The honor svstem works there ... because the ^Indents 
make it work. 


We come lo school not because it is fashionable; we come to learn 
how to be more useful citizens. When several students exchange infor- 
mation during a test they destroy the instructor's method of evaluating 
his effectiveness as a teacher by raising the class average. Students 
who do not turn in their work on tests actually deprive their neighbors 
of a grade, especially if the test is graded on a "curve". On most of 
the subjective-type tests the teacher must use a comparative system 
of grading, even though the actual curving method is not used. Two 
average students who have compared notes might be expected to receive 
grades as high as a "B" or even an "A" student. And if many in the 
class swap information the "B" or "A" students may find themselves 
receiving "C's" and "D's". Also, the students who have worked togeth- 
er will receive a grade for work which they have not assimiliated as 
knowledge, a fact that will be discovered by future teachers and employ- 
ers, who will lose respect for the school. Once a school loses its 
reputation, its products do not bring a very high price on the job 

Armstrong has at the time of this writing a better-than-good 
reputation. We who are here should do our very best to preserve the 
high standard that we inherit from those who went before us. 

This college serves many deserving students who could not other- 
wise afford the expense of a college education; our brothers, our sisters, 
and our friends can now receive from Armstrong an education cheap 
in cost and high in quality. It is for this reason that we should give 
Armstrong an honorable name. 

Armstrong is small as colleges go, but it is too big for those who 
would make it a doll-house. Those who can afford to buy a college 
education that they do not receive can afford to go elsewhere. Let 
us who remain make the honor system work. 



By Bernard Dismukes 

The Florida sun was bearing down in all its glory. The da\ ,was 
one that you would call perfect. The air was calm and fresh. It was a 
day that made everyone glad that he was alive. I was alive and I was 

The peace and calm of that beautiful day was BOOH ended. The 

haunting rhythm of the rat-drum filled the air. I turned m\ head and 
-n\\ the detachment of Marines slowly coming down the path. The] 
made a striking picture in the uniforms that made them known a> 
"America's pride". As they drew closer. 1 could make out the flag- 
draped casket between them. They were in front of us now. 

The preacher began his services. He said many vrords. It was 
strange, but they meant absolutely nothing. He was finished cow. 
The bugler paid his tribute. The firing-squad roared its salute to the 
heavens. An old lady in her early sixties sobbed softh . Foolish, wasn't 
it? Her son had been dead for four long years. The burial was over. 
He had returned home. 

\ young, bashful Marine Lieutenant presented her the flag that 
had covered her son's body. The old lad) looked at it tenderly. 
For, after all, this was her son. A flag was very little to show for 
twenty years of love and devotion. However, couldn't she boast in 
years to come of how he had won the Silver Star for bravery and a 
personal Presidential Citation? Like hell she could! Damn mans 
folly — war! I thought. This could have been me just as well. Sud- 
denly, I because nauseously sick. Fear gripped m\ heart. Then, like 
any other American. I laughed. I would worry about it some other 
time: the time when it would be too late to worn. 



By Josephine Reed 

Once there lived — believe it or not — a simple, innocent little girl 
of eighteen, named Candy. She, with her nine brothers and sisters, 
had been born and raised in a mud hut in the Georgia swamps, far 
from the filth and unclean atmosphere of the big city. Here, close to 
nature, she had wallowed in the mud as a child and gradually became 
familiar with the wolves that roamed in her backyard. This familiarity 
later proved very helpful to her when she met the more civilized mem- 
bers of the species. 

Candy's days were peacefully passed in catching the sows, beating 
the brats, smelling the stable, pickling the pigs,. fighting the flies, and 
other pleasant pastimes. From this natural environment she grew, 
developed, and blossomed into a delicate flower of womanhood. How- 
ever, her accumulation of atmospheric particles (or vulgarly speaking, 
dirt) did not do justice to her true beauty. Consequently, she faithfully 
took a bath every year to bring out the hidden aspects of her loveliness. 

In spite of the lonely life led by lovely Candy, she possessed a 
pleasing personality. Often her strong, musical voice could be heard 
resounding through the cypress roots that grew in the swamp. Birds 
rushed to her side as the lovely sounds pierced the air. Her most atten- 
tive audience was a faithful flock of buzzards that circled apprecia- 
tively in the air above her. 

Her educational development had not been neglected. She could 
read the Sears and Roebuck catalog from "telescopes to ladies' under- 
wear". This was thought by her proud father to be quite an accomplish- 

About a mile down the creek on Alligator Bend there lived a hand- 
some lad named Yennik. This fine speciman had arranged with Candy's 
family to "come a-courtin' " her. 

Candy had often dreamed of this coming event. She would 
think of how saintly he looked with his stiff, blond hair that always grew 
towards heaven. 

On the occasion of her first date with Yennik, Candy took an extra 
celebration bath in the slimy swamp. After washing her long, black 
hair, she was delighted to see again her natural golden tresses. Her 
delicate features now appeared. Clear blue eyes shone brightly under 
long, curling lashes. A finely sculptured nose overshadowed her soft, 
rosy, yielding lips. 

She lightly painted those lips with "Red Passion", the nail polish 
that stays on and on and on. Believing herself to be ready, Candy 
rolled leisurely down the front steps of the hut. Her outraged mother 
met her at the bottom. Candy immediately switched her direction and 
rolled back up to her room. There she put on her new gown of polka- 
dotted cheesecloth. After drinking several bottles of "Cherchez la 


Femme", the exclusive Paris perfume, Candy could not suppress her 

excitement without uttering. "Oh."' 

Now the big moment had come. Yennik splashed through the 
shallow water- of the >\s amp in his new convertible. When he stopped, 
Candy crept in through the opened door. Off they went with a jerk 
to watch the alligators swim in the moonlight 

Candy had never before ridden in an automohile. This monster 
frightened her. She sat on the floor, cried pitifully, and tried to hide 
her silken head under the seat. When the car gained speed she peeked 
through the radiator and fell hack in terror against the spark 
plugs. Pitifully she tore through the transmission. However, they 
had reached their destination when the motor choked to a stop. 

Smelling sweetly and with a silly smile. Candy regained her usual 
high spirits. When she had emptied the bottle, sin began to look for 
the alligators they had come to watch. 

The moon shone brightly through the trees; hut not too brightly. 
The stars winked slyly down at the shy, hut not too shy, couple. Daring 
to break the magic spell, Yennik put his arm tenderly around the 
steering wheel. 

Candy gazed dreamingly at the surrounding beauties of nature. 
Yennik asked if she thought the night air chill] : "Cold, ain't it?" 
Candy, wishing to strike up a conversation, eagerly nodded affirmatively, 
"I h-huh." Yennik, fearing for her safety in the night air. moved a 
little closer. Candy showed her gratitude for his thoughtfulness by 
moving a little closer also. Her little hands began to shiver in the cold 
and Yennik politely linked them around his neck and covered them 
with his scarf. Simple Candy was overwhelmed b) his gentlemanly 

Soon a chill north wind blew and Candv shivered again under her 
glittering cheesecloth gown. Yennik unselfishly put his arms around 
her to shield her from the elements. 

Now. in spite of the circumstances, \ ennik s nose WAS a trifle chilly. 
He mentioned this fad t>> Candy, who sympathised sadly by crying, 
"Oh". Then lie began to fear thai tlie strong wind might chap his 
leering lip-. Against bis heller judgment, be mentioned this fact also, 
and offered a suggestion to remedv the situation. Candy obligingly 
applicfl the remedy. Before anvone could suggest a new prescription. 
Candy's father, six brothers, five mules, seventy -five cousins and ten 
hound dogs came crashing through the woods. And that was the end 
of the courtship of Candy. 



By Mary A. Magee 

It is a friendly street with large, shady oaks and laughing children. 
The day is warm. Flowers are in bloom along the walls. The occa- 
sional passersby invariably hum a tune, in keeping with the mood of 
the day. Even the birds sing in joyous abandon of Spring. Yes, it is 
indeed a street of friendly homes and friendly people. 

However, as it often is in life, there is a discordant note, even here. 
On the corner of this friendly street is a white, silent house of mystery 
with windows that are shuttered by day. 

What secret hides behind its closed door? For three long months 
I wondered, watching and waiting for some sign of life, and perchance 
some clue to its mysterious silence. 

Then, one day, I was rewarded. A laundry truck drew up, close 
to the side of the curb, and stopped. The driver stepped down from 
the cab of the truck and thudded up the steps with a bundle under his 
arm. He grasped the brass knocker and beat a rapid staccato upon the 
door. I was tense with expectation as he waited for a response from 
within. After a short time the door opened upon protesting hinges, but 
to my keen disappointment it opened only enough to allow for the 
passage of the bundle. I could not discern the receiver of it. 

Several nights later, as the town clock struck two, I awoke and 
looked out of my window just in time to see the shadowy figure of a 
man entering the side gate of the mystery mansion. Someone was evi- 
dently awaiting him on the side porch. There followed a brief exchange 
of words, after which the stranger departed, carrying with him a large, 
bulky package. I noticed that he walked with slow, shuffling steps, as 
though very old and very tired. Who was he? What was in the pack- 
age he carried? I was no nearer a solution than before, and presently 
I dreamed a dream 

It was a summer's evening in the latter part of the nineteenth 
century. There was music in the air, and gay, young laughter could be 
heard, issuing forth from the white house on the corner. Inside, in the 
ballroom, there was dancing. There was one who was not dancing, 
however. It was she for whom the party was given. She was awaiting 
the arrival of her beloved, who had gone to New Orleans the previous 
month. He was due back within the hour, and in the morning they 
would be wed. Carefully she examined the wedding gifts, thinking of 
how surprised he would be to see them all. She breathed a sigh, and 
hugging her dreams close to her heart, watched with unseeing eyes as 
the dancers glided by. Suddenly she saw him. Her heart quickened 
with joy, but it was a joy short-lived. She sensed almost immediately 
that something was wrong. Very gently, he took her by the hand, and 
together they went out into the balcony. He told her of all that had 


happened to him in New Orleans. During the telling, her dreams came 
crashing down aboul her feet, and she wept silently. How could the 
face her friends? She could not hear to see the pity in their eyes. 
Neither could she still the ache in her heart. Even after he had gone. h\- 
diminishing footsteps echoed hollowly and mockingly through her con- 
sciousness .... 

It was earl> morning when I awoke: the memory of the dream 
was -till fresh and vivid in my mind. I dressed hurriedK , and after 
one last look at the house across the way 1 rushed downtown to the 
train depot. Vacation was over. \s 1 took my place on the train, I 
saw a little old man coining down the aisle. He walked with slow, 
shuffling steps, and carried a large, bulky package. He ITM an antique 



(N. B. The following bit of blah-blah is not intended to frighten 
mentally unkempt children or agitate pregnant cats. It is only a lay- 
man's uninhibited expression of his ignorance in relation to his stupid- 
ity, two first cousins who walk hand-in-hand. What you might or 
might not read in the next few minutes concerns that imminent plague 
which is slowly but surely outwitting every branch of philosophy and 
ole-time intelligence in general, if there is such a thing. It is possible 
that Bridge might be a short-cut to the development of a thinking mind, 
but the writer doubts it. In fact, he believes that anyone who, in 
public, says that Bridge will develop the type mind in question can 
only be repeating what the president of the local Bridge madams told 
her organization last Tuesday afternoon. Bear in mind that the writer 
is not anti-bridge. On the contrary, some of the prettiest girls he 
knows stretch their provocative legs under Bridge tables. But he would 
like to see a renaissance in the Stud Poker world, if you please.) 

My girl friend is a better Bridge Player than I. (And if that 
isn't correct English I'll eat your score pad.) She should be; she was 
reared in a family of Bridgeplayers. Sometimes (which rolls around 
often) I think they should have learned to play other games at her 

It is no surprise whenever I walk into their mortgaged domicile 
to find their four heads, each member of the family having one, buried 
in the ecstacy of such things as "one-hundred honors", "voids", and 

It seems that a match never ends. When one gets hungry he waits 
until he's dummy, at which time he dashes off in the direction of the 
cheese sandwich locker and comes back with a plate of cold beans 
left on the back porch by a considerate neighbor. The same routine 
is followed, evidently, when one gets sleepy, has to make his toilet, or 
run out and make an honest buck so that more cards may be purchased. 

On a warm Saturday afternoon I walked over to my girl's house 
to ask her father when he was going to get out and find a steady job. 
As I walked in, he flung an ash tray at his wife for ignoring a bid he 
had made. The question I had in mind was now out of the question. 
However, my girl, whom we shall call Mary because it'll be easy to 
spell from here out, happened to be dummy for that particular hand 
which had been dealt. So she drew me aside and asked if I'd like to 
learn the game. 

"No," I said. 

"Do you want mother and father to like you?" Mary threatened. 

"Teach me," I pleaded, feeling thoroughly framed. 

Well, anyway, if I was going lo court her over a Bridge table, 
I figured I would need some conversation fodder. A scant knowledge 

* Altho tliis title lias no bearing on the story, it makes good reading in itself. 


of tlie game would lend this conversation if nothing else. 

She ran around to her partner's hand. Her partner at the time 
was her quick-witted brothel who spent his spare time catching flies 
with his tongue. Her fingers ran the line of cards he held. "Hold 
that .... force the queen with this . . . .force the queen with this ... a 
finesse might work if you drop this after the so-and-so, etc. . . . " 

Next she grabbed a spare deck with one hand and a spare hand 
of mine with the other. Over to the corner we went for the lesson. 
The tricks of the trade lay at my feet. I should have stomped them 
right there. Mary didn't have much time to explain, hut mj earnest' 
ness in courting her enabled me to grasp quickly a few fundamentals 
which 1 will now attempt to explain to you people who haven't as yet 
been inflicted with the disease. 

First, besides the ordinary deck of playing cards, you'll need four 
players. It is best to get either four men or four women. Try not to 
mix the elements or you'll short-circuit a beautiful afternoon. With 
the absence of inter-sex friction you'll have no prejudice and avoid an 
enormous amount of fighting with wife or sweetheart. Main divorces 
and hatchet-murders have sprung from the wife-husband ami sweet- 
heart partnerships in bridge. 

Maybe it's not so bad to get a divorce from the old nag or to 
split the head of your true-love with a gleaming ax, but you'll find 
it embarrassing when the judge stares at you through six layers of 
justice and asks you how the whole thing started. If you say that it 
started one night when you trumped your partner's trick, you're liable 
to get a horse laugh from the jury. Or you will, no matter the verdict, 
throw a bad light on the game of games. 

So you can see from the start that this adventure is a serious step 
for anyone. Choose the right players, always, 

Getting back to the rules .... 

Each player IS assigned one of the four basic directions — north, east, 
south or west. It is of little importance which one you happen to be. 
You might face south, yet be referred to as west, bill thai is a directional 
phenomena that might as well he overlooked. Nevertheless, while play- 
ing you arc permitted to call your partner (iisino or Rudy or whatever 
his or her name might he. Miss West or Mr. North sounds too Stuffy 
and is apt to cast a psychological effect upon the game which tends to 
discourage alert playing. 

Bridge is played 1>\ only four people because there are only four 
basic directions. In yean In come, when families increase in si/e and 
Bridge tables become scarce because the table makers are out playing 
Bridge. I suppose a few more directions will he inserted to make room. 
Of course, they would be less prominent directions, such as northwest, 
southeast, etc. More room is a necessity which posterity will definitely 


But in the meantime you must concentrate on the rules of the 
four-handed game. Worry about increasing the size of your family 
later. On second thought 

Without a doubt, the most difficult phase of the game is the bid- 
ding procedure. Each player gets a chance at it. All the action occurs 
while the bidding is going an and in the future I predict that the minor 
matter of playing the cards will be thrown back to bingo. Bidding is 
exciting. So is an earthquake. 

After all the cards have been dealt, the four persons involved in 
the sham take enough time to examine their cards and make a few 
quiet remarks such as "phew", or "who dealt this crap!" 

Perhaps it would be wise here to emphasize the fact that the main 
idea is to find out just who has what cards. 

You're not allowed to ask your partner across the table about the 
potency of his cards, although certain hints may be thrown — in a subtle 
manner, of course. Through the years have come several standard 
methods of passing information without being outright forward about 
it. In a case where your highest card turns out to be a three, in order 
to let your partner know that you hold very little or nothing worth- 
while, you might say, "I'll be damned," or "I hope somebody can bid!" 

The most subtle hinter I've ever known was my uncle Freddie. 
When dealt a lousy hand, he would remove his coat and put it on 
backwards to show that his bidding or helping possibilities were nil. 
Trouble came only when he started playing with his coat on inside out; 
but most of the time he was sober and didn't have any coat trouble. 

Game authorities publish hundreds of books with hundreds of rules 
about the game, most of which are either ignored or misunderstood. 
But there was or is one fellow who seems to know what he's talking 
about. His name is or was Blackwood. His procedure for diagnosing 
his partner's hand without having a peek has come down to the present 
generation and landed smack-dab in the middle of almost every Bridge 
table in the country. It seems that Mr. Blackwood always played with 
a partner who was rather stupid. What the poor fellow knew about 
bidding could be neoned on the point of an idea with a sledge hammer. 
Their chances of winning depended entirely upon Blackwood's capabili- 
ties and runs of luck. When the time was ripe, all Blackwood needed 
to know was what his partner held. 

An arrangement was made whereby Blackwood would indicate by 
a certain bid that he wanted to know something about the cards on the 
opposite side of the table. His signal was "four-no-trump," which 
nowadays actually means "I have four aces, ain't that a dandy!" 
(Other definitions may vary somewhat.) 

At the signal, Blackwood's partner would stagger across the room 
to a piano and play certain tunes, each indicating the run of cards he 
held. For instance, if he held three kings, he would play "King Size 


Papa" three times. Or if he held two jacks he would play two arias 
from the "Jack and The Beanstalk ' opera, which is. incidentally, I fas- 
cinating little ditty. 

After a time. Blackwood and his partner hecame contenders for, the 
national Bridge championship, a choice spot in the annals of culture. 
They would have won the title had they played the match in a room 
where a piano hung out. 

But his method ran amuck anyway as a private enterprise when 
the multitudes became attached to the idea. Bridge games turned into 
piano recitals and the national championship games lost a little prestige 
when the match committee moved the tournament site to Carnegie Hall. 
However, "Blackwood" is still in use in some places. 

That's about as far as I got in the bidding lesson. As a matter of 
fact or fiction, that's as far as I got with the whole business. But I 
still had my round-trip ticket back to where 1 started from. \nd it 
ain't so bad being ignorant, if you're ignorant of the right things. 

Nowadays, if and when people ask me to sit in on "just a hand 
or two" I simply mete out to them my aversity to group gatherings, 
which, at times, can be subject to congressional investigation. After 
they've proved to me that bridge gatherings are legal, and ha\e put 
away the I nited States Constitution. I plead not guilty to any charges 
of having played the game at am time in my life and make proper 
motions which will deliver me from the area of inquiry. Soon I'm 
begged to stick around and learn the game, from a few "old hands."' 
Of course. I do. and it make- for a happier world because there- nothing 
people enjoy any more than telling you something \«'ii don't know. 

And that's a fact! 



By Lois Cannon 

Henry Durham sat in his big easy chair holding the even- 
ing paper in his hands — listlessly — and staring into the lonely silence 
of his living room. His thoughts might be of his only child, his lovely 
daughter whom he had buried this afternoon. But more specificall), 
at this moment, Mr. Durham was thinking of a certain young man in 
the town and wondering if he should approach him; wondering, partic- 
ularly, if the young man could help him understand why his daughter 
was dead. 

Celia had died on Monday afternoon. Her father had come in and 
found his supper ready and waiting and, calling to Celia, had gone to 
find her on the floor of her room — already dead. The evening paper 
was crumpled under her body. She had evidently been reading it, but 
it was disarranged so that he could not tell what she had been reading 
when she fell. Maybe it wasn't important .... but he was searching 
everywhere for anything which might help him to understand. The 
mystery was unbearable. The only clue had been the doctor's professed 
belief that there had been some great shock. Mr. Durham could not 
believe this. Celia had been very quiet lately — but then she had been 
working very hard this year. She had a heavy schedule at the college, 
she managed the house of her father, and she was very conscientous 
about everything she did, taking responsibilities with extreme serious- 
ness. There couldn't have been anything really wrong with celia, 
thought her father, but nevertheless he felt urged to look among her 
things. There was just a chance 

Mr. Durham reached for Celia's diary and looked through it one 
more time. The young man's name was Jim Corcoran. He was one 
of the professors at the college. Celia had been in one of his classes 
the year before, but this year — here it was all clearly explained — she 
had been careful to avoid his class. She had fallen in love with him 
and he had never noticed. She had tried to avoid him and to convince 
herself that it was unreal and ridiculous. This proved impossible and 
Celia sought desperately for a solution. She had finally resorted to 
positive action — influenced, she hastened to explain to her diary, by 
some theories she had studied in her Psychology classes. She had 
overcome her innate modesty to the point of telling the young teacher 
how she felt about him. (Mr. Durham could imagine the young man's 
mixed feelings on this occasion and could understand that it must have 
taken him some time to examine his own reactions. ) But Celia had 
been carrying her burden of love so long, and was so nervous over what 
seemed to her the extreme lengths to which she had taken herself, that 
she had tried to run away from the affair as soon as she had admitted 
it. She didn't give young James Corcoran another opportunity to 
speak to her. 


Still. Mr. Durham could not piece together the whole st<>r\. Some- 
thing had happened suddenly — it must have been on Monday. Indeed, 
she had seemed composed enough when he had said goodbye to her 
that morning. He brought himself back to the present with a strong 
exertion of will and picked up the paper and turned to the local news. 

It was a very short piece and he ccrtainh would never have noticed 
it in any other circumstances, but now the name seemed to jump out and 
strike him. He read: 

"With apologies to Mr. James Corcoran of Eastern College, 
the Press wishes to correct an error made in last Monda\ '.- 
issue " 

Mr. Durham felt a sharp pain in his breast and held his breath 
tightly as he read on: 

" It was Mr. James Cochran 

who married Miss Ethel Martin, NOT Mr James Corcoran. 

"Apologies also to Mr. and Mrs. Cochran." 



By Harriet Krobalski 

I realized I could stall no longer. Judgment day was rapidly draw- 
ing nearer and nearer. I must either complete the assignment or pay 
the penalty. I could not afford the latter. I was uncertain about my 
capabilities concerning the former. Night after night I lay awake, 
wracking my brain for a suitable solution. Night after night I could 
find none. I consulted many learned people. They either could not 
or would not help me. I was driven to distraction. I was falling off 
the job in everything else. My home happiness became endangered. 
My family lost respect for my lack of ingenuity. They could not under- 
stand my helplessness and lack of inspiration. They all claimed they 
could fulfill the requirements so easily. However, all reneged when 
asked for advice and help, saying it was my job, that I had undertaken 
it, and it was I alone who had to do it. 

Meantime time was getting short and I was no nearera solution 
than before. I considered all possible ways out of the situation. 1 
found there were none. Complete frustration overwhelmed me. I was 
duty-bound hand and foot. My task kept staring me in the face. It 
came up in my dreams. It jumped at me from the pages of the news- 
paper, magazines and books. I could find no peace anywhere. I had 
one week left. 

Finally I began a search. I hunted everywhere, through all 
material available; and there were scads of it. Shelf after shelf, rack 
after rack; no stone was left unturned.. All possibilities were investi- 
gated. Every likely thing was followed through to the very end. Every- 
thing proved futile. I seemed to be completely surrounded by a moat of 
failure. Even when I tried to resign myself to my fate, that black, 
ugly penalty wormed its way into my mind. Eating, sleeping, thinking, 
it was always there, in all its horrible shapes. 

I then began to reason with myself that things could be worse. 
To no avail. I could never reach higher until I overcame this abomin- 
able task. It got worse and worse, as the days flew by, swiftly and 
silently. My outlook got blacker and blacker. I tried employing a 
"devil may care" attitude. That, too, was useless. Nothing, no matter 
what, succeeded in bringing levity to the dilemma. 

I had had a long period of time to work out a solution. I had 
left it for last, thinking it would be an easy thing to conquer. How 
wrong I had been! Zero hour was approaching. I would do only one 
thing — give up. It was a cowardly thing to do, but to my way of think- 
ing the only way out, if I was to keep my sanity. I carried this decision 
through. I would take the consequences to the best of my ability. I 
became convinced that I had done the best thing. 

Then, slowly, oh! so slowly it came to me. The solution I had 
searched for so feverishly. Without any effort. Without any 


strain. Without any thought it came of its own free will. I would 
not, I could not believe it. The impossible had happened. I felt an 
insane joy surge through my body. And then a frustration that after 
all my work, and worry, this demon should come at its own time, with- 
out any effort on my part — I who had reached the brink of helpless- 
ness in search of an answer to my problem. A crazy mixture of elation 
and despair took hold of me. 

The latter was soon wiped out, however, as I set down the words. 
They flowed freely now, as if part of a smoothly running stream. 1 
could hardly put them down, they came so swiftly. As 1 was writing 
1 smiled, thinking that all my efforts had not been in vain after all. All 
the time and energy I had spent in research had showed me the way in 
which the problem should be attacked. It required little but calmness and 

When I had finished the work and had carefully gone over it, to 
check for errors and omissions, I was quite satisfied with myself. I 
completely forgot my earlier feelings of despair and helplessness. All 
I saw was a well-done job. Now 1 smile wryly to imself when 1 think 
of the ease with which one can write a term paper. 



By Arthur Whitfield 

I chug-a-lugged a Tru Ade and gazed drunkenly into the eyes of 
Vera, my houseparty date. 

"Baby-doll," I whispered, warming my sensual appetite. My right 
hand was sticky and damp where the potent beverage had trickled lazily 
to the point of drying and irritating me, not to mention Vera, whose 
job it was to lick my hands occasionally to signify her appreciation 
of my asking her to be my date for the Tantum Ergo houseparty. 

Suddenly becoming conscious of the presence of several frat 
buddies who had crawled in through the telephone outlet, I pushed 
aside Vera — gorgeous Vera. 

"Hi, fellows," I shouted, apologizing for my opened shirt button 
with a sweep of my hand in the direction of Vera and Heaven. I greeted 
them with gusto and pure appreciation of their potential companionship 
qualities. My spine tingled from one end of Vera to the other. 

"What cha say, chum," they replied in unison. We clasped hands 
for a few hours and recited from memory the followship code while 
Vera painted whorls on the wall with her lipstick. 

After the ceremony I said, "Where are the girls?" — to which they 
replied, "We had to lock them in a house on Butler Avenue." 

"Why?" I inquired, reminding Vera with a twist of her wrist that 
she was a lady and should act in that capacity while on a Tantum Ergo 

"Aw, shucks," said Ed, "All they want to do is pitch woo, and you 
know how disgusting that can get." 

"Bosh," I said, almost letting go a bad word — "how silly can you 

"And on top of that," said another member of the frat, "they 
threatened mass suicide if we didn't take them to the fort and park." 

"Ugh!" I ughed with a big ugh. "Fellows," I went on, "Some- 
thing must be done about this irritating crave the girls have for us 
men of Tantum Ergo. It seeps through our windows at night on the 
undulating spring breezes, invading the sanctity of our private cham- 
bers, disturbing the creative thoughts of prolific young Americans. 
Suffrage wasn't enough. Now they want to plague us with their undy- 
ing love and all that sort of thing, which we must fight against, even 
if it means the disbandment of ... of ... . Tantum Ergo Fraternity." 
For a few minutes all was quiet while I sobbed gracefully in my hankie. 
Then I continued: "If worse comes to worse, I would be tempted to 
withdraw my membership in TE if it would in any way divert the crisis. 
But before I further commit myself, is there a suggestion from one of 



"Let's go to the fort!" screamed Vera — scrumptious Vera. 

"Aw, cut that out." \ tiled Ed. Vera cut it out; then Ed finished 
his turn. "May he we could sell our fathers' cars so they wouldn't be 
able to ask us for dates anymore. That'd be the best way to discourage 
their advances, fellows— but I'm not saying that we shouldn't remain 
on a friendly status with them." 

M ^ ou're right." I said, before anybody else could say it. a neat trick 
tending to give me a little prestige. 

Ralph Vigor, president of Tantum Ergo, stood erect and faced 
the group. "Fellows, we are here on our houseparty to have fun — 
not to sit around being disturbed with the feminine situation." 

"0. K.." agreed Ed, "Where do we go from here?" 

"To the fort, please, to the fort," pleaded Vera — lovely Vera. 

"Now looka here, Vera." said Ed, with an appropriate degree of 
friendship, "you're beginning to act like the typical girl with that kind 
of nonsense. There'll be no fort activities until tomorrow morning, at 
which time we fraternity brothers will don our football jerseys with 
the large numbers on the backs of them, put on our heavy athletic BOCkfl 
and sneakers — that is, those of us who have Hat feet — trot onto the 
beach in a loose formation, and play Softball." 

"Oh, goody," shouted the youngest member of the frat who sat 
less than three feet from a "Poignant Romances" magazine, unmindful 
of his close proximity to vice. 

With one swift, sincere gesture. Vera threw her arms around as 
many of m\ frat pals as possible. Hugging them tighth. she said, "I 
love you boys . . .why can't we go somewhere and do something about 

"Let's sing 'I Been Working on the Railroad'," suggested Fred 
Sinewy. always the life of the party. 

"We could all chip in and buy a pound of weiners — if somebody 
will lend me a dime — and go down on the beach and build a fire and 
have a weiiier roast," Offered Charlie Pelvis. 

I admired their fortitude. But there are times on this earth when 
a leader must speak forth and aid his fellow men by using his past 
experiences ;is judgment on a given issue. So I said. "You boys go 
back ovei to the house on Butler Avenue and get the rest of the girls. 
I'm sure that bj now they have come to realize thai it is possible to get 
along for a few minutes without a man. Therefore, let them have their 
freedom; but only on the condition that they promise to refrain from 
making advances, especially those advances suggesting romance." 

My ego was quick to absorb the admiration that beamed forth 
from my frat buddies, I continued with mv talk, realizing that their 
stomping and shouting meant for me to inspire them further. 


"Fellows," I said, glancing frequently at Vera, "as I look about the 
room, it is with a tremendous feeling of pride that I measure your 
infinite goodness. You are the bulwark of righteousness, the tower 
standing as a beacon of decency. In my heart, I know that you and I 
care for the finer things in life — a life of culture, beauty, and sizzling 
overtures of good-will to one's fellowman. Softball on the beach, 
fishing in the back river, tall tales of dirty carburetors and twisted 
universals, singing songs by the fire and corresponding with the presi- 
dent of Tantum Ergo International are what we must indeed call the 
finer things of life." 

As soon as the boys had gone back over to the house on Butler 
Avenue, I threw Vera — tantalizing Vera — against the wall and filled 
her with an explosive rapture (as the writers put it). My kisses made 
her spine tingle from one end of me to the other. I had had enough 
of that brotherhood business. I was crazy for sisterhood — a lot of it, 
and I would have admitted it in the last paragraph but the boys were 
still in the room and I couldn't have them hear me say something like 



By Robert Epps 
(With an introduction by a friend .... not necessturil) of his.) 


Robert Eppfl would like to become ■ squatter on the graz- 
ing lands of genius. But he has no idea where that trrrit<>r\ 
lies, and it is p< >>si l>l<- that he wouldn't recognize it if he were 
corraled on it. His objectives at the present time are beside 
the point — just as his reviews are. 

Having no education to s|»e;ik of, but enough to complain 
of, Epps rose from the depths of a world that offered nothinp 
but work. He was still in his clothes when he realized that he 
could never be a working man. That's when he decided to 
enter the plowed field of journalism, a field seldom made fertile 
by the decadent carcass of an ex-great. But, nevertheless, he 
rolled up his trouser legs and waded in. So far. he has not 
been molested. Westbrook Pegler probably will never hear of 
him anyway. 

If Eppfl 1 biography had been written before his birth, it 
would have been too late even then. Many people in the past 
twent] or thirty years could have profited greatb 1>\ his blun- 
ders Hut. on one of the other bands, his blunders have been 
highh amusing at limes. While on a recent pood-will tour of 
the world. Epps encountered Roberto Rosselini in Stromboli. 
Keeping his distance from the Italian film hoy. Epps flashed 
-moke signals in broken Italian doubting the legitimacy of 
Rosselini fl claims to the father-hip of the Bergman brat, at the 
-ante lime shining his finpernails on Ingrid's upholstered bed- 
room door. 

Where other reviewer- leave a trail of hroken and mended 
Souls, Eppi leaves a trail of hroken and unmended bottle-. 
That's only a part of the lighter side of his life. The other 
side i- weighted down with rejection slips from the best 

publisher! in the world. 

Epps actuall) started bis careei with the Salvation Army. 

He was on the truck detail thai drove about town relieving the 

citizenn of old papers and magasinee. Being the only man 

on the truck who could read (a fact which tends to doubt 

everything said about him so far), he would lie upon the 

pile of trash and tell the other men. in BO many words — bad 

word) — what he was reading. Having a limited amount of 
lime, he would breeze through as many comic books in a day 
.1- possible, giving short but accurate accounts of the trite 
he loved so much. 


From there he turned to his uncle who lived in Louisiana, 
a fiery ex-evangelist who memorized, in one day, every other 
word of the Bible — for no particular reason, unless he was 
driving at a hard bargain with brevity, something or other 
seen only on beaches these days. Taking note of the favorable 
results his uncle got from reciting the abridged spiel of scrip- 
tural literature, Epps decided then that he would peddle 
reviews of popular novels, using the methods later printed in 
this magazine. As hard as it is to believe, his reviews are 
outselling the books he reviews. (One school of thought 
maintains that the books he reviews are merely figments of 
his screwball imagination.) 

Recently, Epps held a public gathering in his backyard 
with the purpose in mind of abolishing faulty book reviews. 
He found an edition of the New York Times book review sec- 
tion which he promptly ignited, climaxing a predominately hot 
evening. Later he was informed that the particular magazine 
he burned in his backyard was published every week; rain 
or shine, or indifferent. "Oh," he said, "then it twarn't worth 
the kerosene I bought to git the fire started." 

Speaking without a point of view, one finds it difficult to 
understand how he manages to write his reviews without a sec- 
retary taking his dictation and correcting his erratic gram- 
mar. "Don't know a thing about machinery," he will say 
when you thrust a fountain pen in his face and ask for his 
autograph. But let us not worry about this strange Mr. 
Epps, the boy with his tongue in his cheek and his head up 
the right alleys. 

A. D. W. May 1, 1950. 



Many great men have tried their hand at book reviewing. The list 
includes Robert Epps, George Bernard Shaw. Nathaniel Baeon. Robert 
Epps, Ernest Hemingway, and a local boy, whose name we can't think 
of at present. 

The following books have been Belected as the best of the month 
by the American Book Club, a subsidiary of the Milwaukee Brewing 
Company, based on (ll distinctive and original v\ riting, (2) clearness 
of purpose, and (3) filthiness. 

IN THE STILL OF THE NIGHT, bj Luke Brown— This heart-wann- 
ing novel about the trials, the heartaches, and the frustrations of mak- 
ing corn liquor under the very nose of the law is told dramatically by 
Luke Brown, or J-145608X for the next two to five years, with such 
an impact, such an ey de clat (French) of words, and such a something 
or other that it can easily be classed one of the top books on the corn 
liquor industrv in southeast Georgia to appear in recent weeks. 

The story starts off in the small, but dignified town of Sour Milk. 
Tennessee, where we find Lucy Hogg well past the age of puberty. 
Pushing thirteen, she is desperate to get a man — any man. "I want a 
man — any man," is the way she puts it. 

Along comes Earthquake Sam McGee. so nicknamed because he 
gets the shakes ever] time he sees a sheriff. It was natural that Lucy 
and Earthquake would fall in love. He had everything she wanted in 

a man. except a brain, and she reminded him of the liquor stills, smell 
and all. which he loved. 

The couple lived blissfullv until the law came across several of 

Earthquake's stilts, so the) lied into Georgia and founded a small town 
to set up a new batch of slills. This town the) named Stilson. a boom- 
ing metropolis where the) leave the sidewalks out until well past nine 

Here the stor) ends abruptly, due t<> the fad thai the last fort) 
pages wire losl in the printing of the book, which is just as well. (The 
Princeton Press, $3.50. 1 


Abraham (Ears) McCormick. 1). D. — Rev. McCormick, after already 
establishing himself as ;i novelist with such besl sellers as "The Pas- 
sionate Pickup", and "I he Virgin Said \ ee", has sw itched his writings to 
more serious channels. This book, as the title implies, tells the need 
for rlgn. in a trbld. wld. (abbreviations to save space). Rev. McCor- 
mick sweat! OUl about I 10 pages on this topic, says to hell with it 
all. and throws in a new plot. It seems the narrator, who is a car- 
dinal, and once played on the same team with Pepper Martin, catches 


his housecat in an affair with the hishop's torn cat. The housecat bears 
the illegitimate kitten of the torn cat, and is exposed in a stirring scene 
by the cardinal before the entire church congregation. 

A dramatic ending, which I shall not reveil here, finds the car- 
dinal and the house cat tearfully making up, while the torn cat outside 
the window sings "O Sol Meow". (Madcap Publications, two bucks.) 

* * • 

Godfrey Arthur — Sir Arthur has come up with a novel that is unlike 
anything we have read since we reviewed Samuel Johnson's "Diction- 
arye" in 1743. He boils his plot down to seven pages, and fills the 
remaining 615 with last year's stock quotations. 

This idea, unique though unoriginal (Evangelist Saul Smith used 
much the same method by padding his "Golden Book of Prayers" with 
Petty Girls to make it thicker) allowed Sir Arthur to finish the book 
in four hours, less than the time it takes to make a Western movie. 
There are four murders and five cases of adlry (abbreviated to fool 
freshmen readers) on page one alone, and from there the action 
picks up until the climax on page seven, when the Duke's dog has a 
litter of fifteen puppies. (Paducah Press — 40 dubloons.) 

* * * 

MY SON! MY SON!, by Roberto Rosselini— Rossellini tells in 
intricate detail the story of his life up until the time he meets Ingrid 
Bergman. "From there," he says, "my life is an open book. Any- 
thing I write would be old stuff." 

Rossellini's early boyhood was the same as most young Strom- 
bolians. He was a dope addict at six, but gave up the habit following 
his marriage the next year. At fifteen, he quit school when his son 
caught up with him in the second grade. But let Rosselini tell it in 
his own words: "Y claroso de quicho fujiama de santicluz y espiano . . . 
— on the other hand, maybe we better finish telling it. 

Roberto broke into the movies at seventeen in a "Tarzan" film, play- 
ing a walk-on scene as an ape in the second reel. He rose to even 
greater heights the following year when he stepped on a buried mortar 
shell. After repeatedly assuring his worried mother that he was not 
hurt, Roberto was released from the hospital eighteen years later and 
shipped by parcel post back to Stromboli. 

Then came World War II. Mussolini's Blackshirts marched 
through Stromboli, killing every man, woman, and child. Roberto 
escaped death by hiding among a pack of donkeys and braying like a 
madman. With the end of the war, his life began anew, as he again 
entered the movie business, this time as a director. In less time than 
you can recite the Cherokee alphabet backwards, he was the top director 
in Europe. After one of his hit films, envious rivals good-naturedly 
doused him with kerosene and threw burning matches at him, yelling 
amid friendly laughter. "Burn, you bastard!" 


(Review ist's note: Soon following the fiery climax of tin* book. 
Roberto was to meet Ingrid. who was on a tour of Italy addressing 
various church and social groups on the dangers of letting young girls 
stay out after 5:30. The book is published by the Stromboli Press, a 
subsidiary of the Shanghai Linotype Operators' Union, and sells for 
five squidgits, Stromboli currency. (A squidgit is equal to $1.17 in 
American money on Sundays and legal holidays.) Written in extinct 
Stroinbolian shorthand, the book is difficult to understand in spots, but 
phrases like "yz Bchltzk cm psp" will stick in the memory, 

(Editor's note: Epps planned to review some fifteen other books 
in this article, including the belatedly released contemporary novel. 
"Does Hitler Want War?" but was forced to call a halt when the type 
writer ribbon shriveled up and died after being used daily for six 
years. "With prices what they are," Epps says, "who has a quarter 
to throw away for new typewriter ribbons." i 



THE MERCURY 1950-51 





We leave to you of fift\ two 

The blood and sweat and tears. 

The aches and strains and growing paint 
We've suffered these two wars. 

\\ c leave the haze of freshman days, 

The leisurely hop nights, 
The week-end rush and Sunday hush. 

And Monday morning "sights." 

The swimming class, the grad term hill> 

Those education tours. 
The Math and Psych and Chemistrv : 
We leave 'em to vou — they're yours. 

That deadline fight on Wednesday night, 

The printers curse. "OH HELL." 
We're throwing rocks as \ou can see 
\t Armstrong's dear Inkwell. 

To yOU lost BOUls, head full of holes. 

With lashes on \oiir hack. 
^ on carry on, for we're long gone — 

We herein drop the sack 



Pate I a a 


Volume 3 


Number 1 

Joan Galin 
Bob Jones 

Dolores Howe 

Joan Cope 
Shirley Hoffman 
Nanna Copps 

Mary Quarles 
Ulena Cox 
Josephine Reed 
Reba Williamson 

John Matthews 
Debra Swartz 
Eleanor Goldberg 



The Circle of Light 5 

Arrival 6 

.Forget-Me-Not 8 

"Give a Man a Horse ..." 9 

The Blank Wall 10 

Optimism 12 


By Shirley Hoffman 

The Martian Gremlshunk 14 

Home. Sweet Home 15 



By Joan Cope 

Ode to a Broken Chilli Bottle 20 

Thee Bug 21 

No More A-Roving 21 

Moonlight 21 

Ellegy to Fenny 21 

Lost at Sea 21 

Winter's End 22 

The Byane Vender 22 


Palomino 23 

The Garden 23 

I'atie Three 


By Henry Precht and Bill Warnell 

The following story was the prize winning story in the Mercury's annual short story 
contest. The wi iters were presented a ten dollar award. 

The distorted shadow of a man broke the circle of light. The shadow moved 
slightly as his body twisted. He was dead. 

El Avenido Prospero was misnamed. It was not an avenue and was by no means 
prosperous. It was the main street of the slum section. Like the rest of the town, 
it was quiet, save for the occasional roar of motorcycles. Here, as in the rest of 
the town, only armed soldiers were on the streets. The uprising had been centered 

The street led to a little park, in the center of the slums. The vegetation there 
was limited to four scrawny, palmettoes and a scattering of bushes. The park's 
sole link with civilization and squalor around it was the Lamp Post. Ornate and 
green, it was shaped like an inverted L. On the base was the inscription. "Por Los 
Ninos." It had been erected three months ago with an impressive ceremony. Even 
the mayor had come. It was the pride of the neighborhood. 

Now it had been desecrated. No children had ever scratched or marked it. 
but now it was suillied. Its glaring light had been a symbol of protection to the 
people. The corpse hanging from the Lamp Post turned slowly. He was a big 
man, portly, the jovial kind, but now his face was a mask of idiocy- The glazed 
eyes stared stupidly at its own shadow. The blood splattered cardboard, pinned to 
his coat, proclaimed, "Red-Traitor.'' Observant people would have said he had been 
dead for hours, however, there was no one to observe. But one 

The little urchin stood for a few minutes outside the circle of light. He looked 
at his bare feet and wiggled his toes. He was one of the many children who lived in 
the streets. Now he was alone, separated from his kind by a force he did not un- 
derstand. To him it was like an Act of God. an earthquake or volcano. He did 
not think or reason why; he thought only of food and warmth. 

The boy walked into the circle of light. He hesitated. The sound of a motor- 
cycle grew louder. A few blocks away its search light combed the walls of the 
houses lining the street. In panic he retreated to the protecting darkness. 

The officer in the sidecar turned off the search light as they bounced into 
the light of the lamp. He dismounted, struck a match on the Lamp Post and lit a 
cigarette. He looked up at the body. He cursed and spat at the shadow. The 
driver laughed as the officer remounted and they continued on the patrol. 

Cautiously, the urchin peered into the lighted area. After awhile the sound of 
the motor faded and he approached the Lamp Post. He looked up at the dead 
man. And the shoes. Reaching up. he untied and pulled off a shoe. Cramming 
the shoe in his pants, he reached again for the now-swinging body. With a quick 
jump he grabbed the other shoe. And left the circle of light. 

Page Five 


By Ralph Dolcoff 

The house wa- j u -~ t another house with a wooden front stoop. Just like dozen* 
on this \er\ same block. Thifl Steaming, Stinking, wretched block. But, I doultt if 
an\ of them hold within their walls the >t<>r\ of sorrow, violence and ruin that this 
one does. The denied garbage cans, the filth, the paper hags with refuse, the kids 
playing in the mess with dirtv. torn clothes. It's a had place to live and you grow 
up scarred by the evil scenes you see ever) dav. 

Above the doorway, a small yellow light bulb glows and the house itself presents 
a dark picture. 

You hesitate about going in for \ou know that all reporters receive a brush-off 
from this type of neighborhood. These people are suspicious always of everybody. 
For poor and ignorant people always are afraid that somebody "II put something over 
on 'em. 

\ <>u knock on the door hut nohod\ answers, so \ ou enter into the hallwav on 
the first floor. 

The torn wall paper and the one dim light, the old musts newspapers being 
saved for something, the dusty floor, everything a perfect atmosphere for growing 
children. Everything tells a story. 

You come to the end of the hall and vou knock again. 

The answer flys back. "Who is it?". "A friend". "Alright come on in." 

As you open the door and walk in you ask \ourself as vou see him sitting 
then — 

"Is this the kid who murdered a man. What kind of kid is this? So young hut 
-ii hrutal. How could a young kid like him do all those had things?" 

, l mi look at him and even in his glor\ he 18 B wretched sight. He is about 
•V 4" with flaming red hair, a wirv bod) ever) inch taunt muscle, he has B sharp 
face, which now supposed!) betrays slyness and hard-hip. you see his bod) is slouched 
into his chair as if expecting to find support and defense there, his face has a 
tautened, hrow beaten look, his deep seated eves are told, sadistic and blank. His 
dres- arc the >ua\e clothe- of an arrived person, somebod) who has it. hut \mi 
notice in this la.-t glance one thing, that his whole being from head to toes i- -cared. 
A frightened guy who has frightened and even killed another i- scared. He wasn't 
chicken when he pulled the trigger hut he shakes like a decapitated hen now. 

"My name i- Paul Roberta and a reporter for the Evening Star." 

"Wat va want?" 

"Well. I was wondering if you might like to tell me your own version of your 
-iu[\ before the poilce come?" 

"Win should I?" 
i OU don't have to if v ou don't want to. but it might help t<> pa— the minutc- 
BS wc wait." 

"(). . Might BS well " "Well I don't right]) know where to Mart." 

"Start at the beginning." 

It was a long time ago. Seems like a lifetime now. It's funnv how you can 
live a lifetime in so -hurt a time." 

Pagt Six 

You the reporter think. Yes, a short time to live when some guy like this 
is always walking around with a chip on his shoulders and a loaded pistol. 

The boy continues his rotten story. 

"Well, anyway, when I was real young 'bout 13, my Ma and Fa was both 
working in the daytime and I used to be left to take care of this stupid house and 

"I guess it was just natural that I started skipping out on school. A whole 
bunch of us fellows used to skip out and go street roaming. At first is was just for 
the thrill of fooling the teachers but later we got bored with just fooling around. 

"We used to meet in the drugstore round the corner. I remember just 
iike it was yesterday. All the older joes used to come around and act real big 
and important. We all wanted to be like them. They had arrived. They were in 
the chips. Smart clothes, girls, money, all the things those older boys had, were 
the things we wanted. 

"What those older fellows wanted and how they got 'em was "big time." We 
wanted all them things too, so we had to do the same things. We had gotten away 
with playing hookey so why couldn't we get away with bigger things. We used to 
sit in the drugstore and plan all sorts of jobs. At first it was things like going into 
dime stores and stealing little things like tacks, papers and little dime novelettes. At 
other times a whole bunch of us would go into a corner store and a few of us 
would walk out with stolen goods. The darn clerks couldn't possibly watch us all 
at the same time. I remember now I was always a follower. That was cause I 
was so little and I remember I wanted to be "big time" like the bigger guys." 

The reporter listened attentively and searched the room for reasons why this 
young boy grew up into a killer. 

I he room was a kitchen. It was messy and filled with stale odors. The walls 
were cracked, food crumbs lay about, empty glasses, dirty plates, the room was 
dark and dismal, it had one window looking out on the filth of the alleyways, his 
playground. The icebox was leaking and the floor was flooded around it. 

This then was the environment in which he grew up. Can good come from evil? 

The boy continued his story. 

"I remember now how we gradauted from alleyways, gang fighting to thefts, 
sealing pocket books and then to burglaries. I was caught once and put in a reform 
school for about 6 months. Then back to this hellhole. What could I do? My 
Ma and Pa hardly earned enough to feed themselves, much less me. So then we 
strated "big time." Nothing little anymore. Big time now. Girls, nightclubs, 
assaults, robberies. We couldn't lose, we were in the chips . . . Clothes, guns. 
We were all boastful and cocky. Last night two of us decided to hold up a drug- 
store. Well we had it planned perfect-like. Not a hitch. My pal was the lookout. 
Timed it perfect and walked in. There wasn't a soul there but the druggist and 
me. I drew my gun and told the guy to hand over his money. You konw it's 
funny that guy didn't want to give up his money. That was the one hitch we hadn't 
planned on. We thought our gun would talk. It did. I squeezed the trigger and 
then he sank slowly to the floor. Cheez, we were so scared we didn't even get the 
money. We hightailed it and now the cops are coming after me." 

Just then there was a loud knock at the front door. He knew the cops had 

He had arrived. 

Page Seven 


By Loi isk \Y \u><>\ \i w ion 

"Slav back! Staj hack! Don't conic near mc You contaminate my soul! 
] loved . . . \ cs. loved you . . . you! You took tnj love and twisted, destroyed it. 

Covered it with the filth and muck of \our diseased mind. I could have stood 
David. I loved you that much ... so much ... I could have lived with your en» 
gulfing hatered and obsession of destroying everything that made me . . . m\ ideal-, 
morals. Hut you went one step to far. Just one step . . . hut. too far! The other 
woman. David, I couldn't take it! hear it ! . . . stand it! I could compete with 
\our hatered and destroying self hut never, never with another . . . woman. \nd 
then to stand the humiliation of defeat. Sec. David. I have the gun in mv hand. 

It is mv wa\ . . . out. The oidv wav for me. You tore mv heart out . . . Even 

the lower animal cannot live with his heart torn out . . . and the humiliation of 
being trodden hv another mate. Good-live. David. I still love you. <*h. yes, 
David, before I make mv exit from this cruel world I have something more to tell 
VOU. ^ ou can't have . . . her . . . either. I have killed her" 

A shot is heard as the curtain closes. The audience goes wild with applause. 
There is the usual proceedure of curtain calls and then the actrest gOCB to her dre— 
ing room, dresses, and is leaving 

"Miss Harvard, you were wonderful! Such an invigorating role." 

"Silvia, vou were sensational." 

"Darling, vou're a natural horn actress. You portrayed the part superbly." 

Yes, these compliments afronted Sil\ia Harvard, as she was leaving. There 
were hundreds of them, and all in earnest She was a great actresfl and the part 
had been done to perfection. 

Sih ia thought a- she walked along the waterfront to her lodging-, "perfect actress 
. . lived the part . . . magnificent portrayal . . . perfect emotion . . . real feeling ." 

Those little thing- people -aid to her as she left had -tuck in her mind. 

The water on the river wa- rough with furv and the wind wa- chilling the 
tears in her eve- She Stopped and looked at the flower- -he had on the lapel of 
her jacket. \ little hunch of forget-me-nots. \flcr a -teadv gaze her eves -hiflcd 
to the angry, hungrv looking water, and in it- furv the meinorv of her life began 
to unfold 

"I he forget-me-nots, vou sen) them to me. Why? . . . Win? . . . To torment 
mc more? To keep destroying me? Why? Why? Why? . . . perfect emotion . . . 

inagiiificient porlraval . . . lived the part . . I did. I did live the part. \\ hv 
shouldn t I be the perfect actress. Kverv feeling in the plav wa- one I have experi- 
enced over a hundred linn- because of vou. That plav i-- the exact duplicate of 
mv life, except . . . exept!! Yes! >e>! that's it. that- it! You can never hurt me 
again, never twist the knife in mv heart, d-trov mv ideal-, again . . . David. 

Vnd so the hungiv waters had it- prcv : opened it- (old. wet mouth, and swal- 
lowed the lovel) young bod) that writhed ill agony. Ml. all that wa- left was a jacket 

caught hv some barnacles to a p<>-t with a little patch of forgetme-nota on it . . . 

from I >av id 

Page Eight 


By Shirley Hoffman 

When we lived in Lilton. Father kept an old saddle mare for jogging into town 
or making short excursions to neighbors' houses. The mare's name was Agnes and 
she had an unnerving habit of baring her teeth when anyone approached her. She 
took a particular delight in stretching her lips away from those huge yellowed teeth 
and rolling her eyes in a frenzied way that struck me through with terror. 1 was 
alwavs quite certain that she'd finally gone mad. How she ever kept her sanity in 
a family like ours was amazing. 

Take, for instance, my first riding lesson. That was an experience that should 
have unnerved a lesser horse than Agnes in a matter of seconds. As it was, I don't 
believe she ever was the same after that day! 

It all began by Father's saddling up Agnes and calling me to mount. Inno- 
cently I asked him to demonstrate. With one manly leap he was atop the boney 
bulk of a horse. Then he dismounted and told me to climb aboard. 

I pondered the problem. 

While I was pondering and mentally encouraging myself. Father was called 
away. I decided to practice while he was gone and surprise him with my equestrian 
ability when he returned. Now I had not long before attended a rodeo in town 
and there I had seen one of the daring young men make a flying leap from be- 
hind his horse and land on the animal's back. Such a stunt on part. I decided, would 
no doubt surprise my Father. 

I started for the point from which I planned to leap onto Agnes' back. She 
turned her head in a slow, decisive manner, rolled her blood-shot eyes, bared her 
tpeth, and raised one hind foot threateningly. 

I decided to mount in a more conventional manner. 

First, Father had put his foot in the stirrup. Then he had vaulted onto the 
animal's back. I raised my foot. It didn't reach the stirrup. So I got a large box 
from the stable and dragged it up to Agnes' side. Then I climbed onto it and 
started to throw my leg over the saddle. Agnes took three steps forward. 

I brushed the sand off my clothes and looked at her with determination. She 
looked back with equal, if not superior, determination and rolled her e\es. Then 
in a laugh-like gesture she raised her head and bared her teeth. 

I took the reins in hand and with some superhuman effort 1 managed to get 
my foot into the stirrup. Clinging to the saddle for dear life I dragged my leg over 
Agnes' back. Then with a triumphant gasp I sat up in the saddle — and discovered 
that I was on backwards. 

Page Nine 



Damn Hipped tin- lu'll hop a quarter and stumbled into the d'unb lit hotel mom 
With a casual ga/c. he memorized its layout, the old four-poster on one side, the 
dresser with a crack in the mirror that smiled at him and a wash basin on the 
other side. The toilet- were at each end of the hall. Through the closed shutters, 
the rhythmic neon reflections heat their tattoo, making the shadows lurch and jump 
rleavil) Damn sat down on the bed and lit a cigarette. The {dare from the match 
illuminated Iks face, a face too old for twentv-one years. Damn drew deep from 
hi* cigarette and let his thoughts drift into 

the past. It is a sunny day hut the air is rrisj) and rusty leaves cover 
the campus grounds at \orman Junior College. Danny is haphazardly 
fating into his seat in Economies, r rcshman Elementary. He aluays 
likes this class because he aluays sees /'aula I'aula is not beautiful — 
her lips too )ull and her cheek hones too high and sharp. But Danny 
likes her. more than that loves her. They uant to get married but 
their parents agree that they are loo young. So they talk of mar- 
riage, anil date, anil meet in Economics. Ereshman Elementary. One 
day they will get married and teach all the cynics . . . 

A fire engine with siren wailing, speeding down the street, brought Damn back 
to the room, lie smothered the cigarette in an ash tr\ and drank some water from 
the basin. He walked over to the dresser and smiled back at the c\ni< mirror. 

remembering . . . 

After one quarter of school Danny has left and is employed at the hirst 
Sational Hank and Trust at a salary of too feu dollars per month, lie 
has been working for eleven months nou and he and I'aula have been 

married three months. Flaunting their marriage, they went to n jewelry 
ttore and proudly bought a ring for $76.45. In a borrowed car. they 
iped across the state line and spent then four-day honey-moon and 

uric swallowed up in a rosy cloud of love hi^.h above the world. \ ou 
Damn spends each day and some nights at the bunk and I'aula uorks in 
the local dime stoic. They are happy even though there is talk of iiai 
and Danrn is fOUUg they don I pay min/i attention to it. 

Damn walked o\er to tin- window ami drew open tile shutters. Across the street 

the marquee ol ■ cheap theater boasted "The Besl Yean of Our Lives. 

God! JUSl four yean Old. A crowd swarmed before the theater floors and 
stretched out into the street like a twisting Snake. Ilroad-shouldered. pimple-faced 


boys with sex hunger on their faces laughed with shallow-chested painted harlots. 
Damn turned dsigustedly from the window and walked hack to the bed. 


The bank has given Danny a riase and he and Paula are happy although 
they both work hard. Paula is worried about the rear and calls Danny 
at the bank and asks, "They iton't take you. nill they. Danny? Danny 
assures her that he is safe but he, also, is worried. They have a little 
money in the bank now. A month passes. And the bitter news comes — 
Danny's reserve outfit has been called. The day Danny is to leave, he 
and Paula walk through the woods and try to be gay. They sit on a 
rock overlooking a stream. He kisses her. Timidly, she confesses, 
''Danny, I'm going to have a baby — //i>' doctor told me today." 
"Oh. God. no! No, not now!" shouts Danny. Paula is frightened 1>\ 
Danny's attitude and becomes hysterical. He slaps her hard across the 
face and watches her sob. 

Danny opened the Gideon Cible and read. ". . . and they shall beat their 

swords into plowshears and their spears into pruninghooks: nations shall not lift up 
sword against nation, neither shall they learn war an) more." It wasn't true. Not 

yet for awhile . . . 

Danny's outfit in Korea . . . fighting . . . bitter cold . . . thin clothing . . . 
. . . the baby . . . Danny tired . . . sick . . . pneumonia . . . Paula 
calling . . . captured and left to die by the enemy . . . mustn't die . . . 
the baby and Paula — have to come back to them — . . . crawling back to 
company . . . medical aid . . . coming home . . . Paula's mother at door 
to house . . . Paula dead . . . baby dead . . . Paula and the baby . . . 

He emptied the contents of his pockets on the bed and slowly studied them. A 
comb. The broken cigarette lighter his father had given him for graduation. Some 
change and two crumpled bills. A watch. The service pistol he found in the snow 
in Korea. A pencil. A tattered wallet. A crucifix. H s eyes wandered over them 
all and then absently focused on the revolver. Hoarsely he whispered. "Paula . . . 

I'aiie Eleven 


By Bon Jom s 

Banks of fog mingled with thin smoke screens rolled across the building tops 
and onto the streets. Now each light within the park petruded as if a queen among 
fireflies Bleeping in stilled air. The empty streets wire a maze of jumbled paseageways 

in which now and then an automobile darted along like an unknowing worm. The 
wind increased casually as if it were yawning from the adventures of the da\ and 
then la) still again. High above the city lights a few stars pecked out. The night 
.vas peace. 

Hut this was home I thought and as the hells from Paul's nodded out the day 
and drifted oiT to slumber once again. 1 saw a plain of ice where once a park had 
been. I Stood like ice, m\ blood ran cold, for there arose a thousand dead from ,1 
blood.) sacrifice. Those lifeless forms approached me. marching two In two. Their 
leader hore a shattered flag of red and white and blue. As the) marched a horror 
tale the) told, of how the) fought a losing war and fell beneath the cold. 

And then a dove approached and lit upon m\ head, and then it rose and flew 
away. There is a hope of peace I -aid. 


Page Twelve 

.©answeis m&mmv 

By Shirley Hoffman 

Page Thirteen 


\i\ Shirley 1 1 « > k i m vn 

\.i <loul>t ever) one of you has used hypersonic telecommunic transmission equip- 
ment ai sometime or another. Almost all communication equipment for distances 
of i!7..") light \ears or more is manufactured h\ I he [ntergalactic Hypersonic Tele- 
communic Fabricators. The heart of this equipment i- the Martian Gremlshunk. 

The gremlshunk i- a crystal similar to the piezo-electric crystal used in short d's- 
tance communication equipment It has man) similar properties such a- a bi- 
sebular cross section andani rod nidation. Furthermore the gremlshunk operates on 

the radiation field principle. 

I nder normal conditions the gremlshunk has an alpa radiation of (>.7 ,03; 

a beta radiation of .0937 -f- 2.7 and an epsilotl radiation of .0937 -f -0002. I ndei 

complete H20 submersion, though, these radiations are increased 1X1018. This 

causes epsilon particles to he Hung into space at a rate approaching c*. Subsequentl) 
a radiation field of the solamachtic type is formed. 

This radiation held has an epsilonic densitv of 7.309 at a distance of 87.15 lighl 

years. \t a densit) of 7.45 or less a completely submerged gremlshunk can con- 
\ert minor beta pulsations to electromagetic pulsation which are easil) changed to 

mechanical sound u;i\c>. 

[< is impossible to communicate over lesser distances h\ means of gremlshunks. 

One .night reason that a partiallv submerged would generate a lesser radiation held 

but experiments in this direction have failed. The exact process of gremlshunk 
radiation is not clearl) understood, though man) experiments are being performed 
in the [ntergalactic Hypersonic Telecommunic laboratories ever) da) to help nun 

gain knowledge of this mv-lerv of nature 

The natural gremlshunk is found in Martian corate p\ rites. It is rather rare 
and until the last centurv this fact prevented the use of the gremlshunk in commer- 
cial equipment However, rnerel) 7<i \ears ago \\ ilton McYick. developed a laborator) 

process for growing gremlshunk'- chemically. This lead to the Martian gremlshunk 

The gremlshunk farm USUall) consist- of a housing project for employees, 
an office building and a hank of vat houses, lab, and Storage houses. In the val 

houses there are man) huge tank- of boiling red liquids. Through the plastic wall- 
one can see crystals of artificial gremlshunk forming. 

Each gremlshunk is allowed to grow 10,000 hour- \t the end of this time 

it ha- reached a size of 15 millimeters on each face. Experimentation lias proved 
this size t<> he most dependable in operation. When a gremlshunk i- full) grown it 

i- removed from the val and -enl through testing laboratories maintained on the farm. 

There it undergoes man) tests of its radiation field, and is classed as to the effi- 
cienc) and -tahiliiv of it- generated field. Finall) it i- -hipped to the [ntergalactic 
Hypersonic Telecommunic Fabricators 1 receiving plant on Neptune where it i- re- 
checked and then placed in the proper transmission equipment 

This equipment is used the galaxies over in hoih industry, and government It 
ha- proved invaluable to the Space Police. Now it is being adapted for inexpensive 

personal equipment Soon ever) man. woman, and child in the galaxies mav have 

a personal telecommunic transmitter-receiver oi In- own. 

This leaflet ha- been prepared 1>\ the [ntergalactic Hypersonic Telecommunic 
Fabricators for use in conjunction with classes in general radiation It mav he ob- 
tained from the public relations offices in Kapar, South Doroheislinese. Neptune 

I 'n . Fourteen 


A STORY OF 2151 A. I). 
By Shirley Hoffman 

"Damn" said Lors. 

"What's the matter with you?" snapped Zorna. 

"I itch." 

"Well, scratch." 

The ensuing silence was broken by the sound of fingers being drawn rapidly 
across woolen-clad skin. 


"Yes, Dear?" 

"Run down to the automatic drugstore and get me a headache tablet, will you?" 
Zorna asked her husband. 

"You go," he grunted, "You know how sick the jet subway makes me." 

"Well, Id think you'd have some consideration for me. You know what hor- 
rible headaches I have," she whined. 

"Why don't you stop wearing that tin helmet?" Lors suggested. 

"Why don't you quit wearing that scratchy wool union suit." 

"But, dear, you know all the boys wear these. They're the fashion." 

"Fashion, hell." Zorna turned on the television. There on its screen in three- 
dimensional full-color stood a young man about seven feet tall and a good four feet 
across the shoulders. As he smiled his teeth gleamed like fluorescent lamps. Slowly 
he flexed his arm and the great bulging muscles ripped under the sleeve of his 
form-fitting suit of red wool. He turned, displaying the cape that hung jauntily from 
a chain about his throat and draped over his manly shoulders. The lights reflected 
in the metal helmet that he wore and glistened in the jewels that studded the wide 
leather belt that encircled his waist. He smiled. 

"What a man!" Zorna sighed. 

She looked up at her husband. 

The autoformatic chair in which he was sitting was one of the newly designed 
models that shifted to fit the form of the person sitting in it. Suddenly the little man 
squirmed and scratched. The chair convulsed. Lors gasped sharply as it clutched 
him and held his body fast. For long seconds he held his breath. Finally the chair 
relaxed and let him go. 

He leaped to his feet. 

Zorna appraised him. The "form-fitting" suit hung loosely about his skinny 
limbs and bagged badly at the knees and elbows. By its own weight the cape pulled 
the chain which held it tight against his Adam's apple and he gasped again, this 
time turning slightly blue. 

With an exhausted sigh he sat down . . . and the wide leather belt cut into hi* 
flesh. He stood up again. And scratched his thigh. Then he scratched his side. 

Zorna sighed and left. 

Page Fifteen 

Lors sat down in the cliair she had vacated ami changed the video channel. 
Ili« screen flashed and then displayed a miumj; woman modeling the latest in femi- 
nine fashion. Her Ion-; shape!) legs were hare from the tops of her fitted hoot* to 
the hem (d her \er\ -short *horl* which were of a metalic < loth that glittered. Another 
expanee of hare flesh stretched from her belt to her bra which was of metal rings 
pyramided on each other and held in place b\ a small chain. Two medalions that 
rested on her bare shoulders with apparently no means of attachment, supported the 
cape that hung gracefulb to her four inch heel-. Long copper-colored locks flowiul 
from beneath her chromed helmet. 

The door slammed and Zorna's quick sharp footsteps sounded in the hall. 

Lors turned off the television and called "What's the matter now?" 

"I'm cold." she told him as she turned the knob of the thermocontrol. 

"Well. I'm hot." he protested. Then he saw the goqsepimples that stood out on 

the abundance of bare leg that was displayed b\ her brief costume. "Come sit down 
w ith inc." he said softb . 

"What? And be scratched to death b\ thai fool suit of long underwear you 
call the latest style!" 

Lors looked at the (old bare legs and the formitling boots that she fought to get 
her chubb\ ankles into. He glanced at the heels on which she tottered, the metalic 
shorts that refused to let her bend over, and the metal bra with her flesh bulging 
around it. And those two medalions that supported her cape, which were held on b\ 
an adhesive that always let go at the most inopportune moments. Then there was 
the metal helmet that gave her such headache*. 

He sighed wearilj . 

She walked oxer to the video set and turned it on again. I he screen glowed 
with a young couple. I'.ach wore a metalic disc which fitted around the neck and 
extended o\er the -boulder*. The girl WOK matching gauntlet* that came to a 
point b\ the elbows. 

"Oh. Lors. darling." Zorna inurmurred. "Aren't the] sinipb divine.*' \\ e 
must get a pair. I hear that \oii can get them with jewels studded on them. 

Lors sighed. And scratched. 

I'iil' Sixteen 

"Melvin, Melvin . . ." 

"What, Ma?" 

"Are you spitting in the fish bowl?" 

"No, Ma, but I'm coming pretty close." 

Professor to student: "111 bet you wish I 
were dead so you could spit on my grave." 

Student: "Oh, no sir! I have to stand 
in enough lines already." 

Just think, Dan tried to put his arm 
around me four times last night. 
What an arm! 

"How much for that hat?" 
"Seventy-five dollars." 
"Where are the holes?" 
"What holes?" 

"The holes for the ears of the jackass 
who would pay that much for it." 
* * * 

A clergyman from South Milwaukee 
tells the story of an Italian who brought 
his baby to be baptized. 

"Now.' he said, "you baptize him right. 
Last time I tell yoh I want my boy call 
Tom. yoh call hcem Thomas. This time 
I want heem call Jack. 

Sweet young thing: "Did my father or- 
der some coal for this morning?" 

Coalman: "This load of coal is for Mr. 

S. Y. T.: "That's fine. I'm Gladys Zell." 
Coalman: "So am I." 

She: "How was the party last night?" 
Voice on phone: "We're having a swell 

A citizen was walking up Fifth Avenue 
when he was buttonholed by a character 
who said: "Shay, can you tell me where 
to find Alcoholics Anonymush?" 

'Why Do you want to join?" 

"No. Wanna resign." 

* * * 

Overheard at breakfast: "You're looking 
good today, pal, who's your embalmer. 

"How did you happen to oversleep this 

"There were eight of us in the house 
and the alarm was only sat for seven." 

* * * 

He: "Every time I kiss you it makes 
mc a better man." 

She. "Well you don't have to try to go 
to heaven in one night." 

"The inner check," said the philosophy 
teacher, "can be applied as well to our 
everyday lives. Observe, for example, the 
fly that just lit on the end of my nose. I 
don't blaspheme. I merely say 'Go away, 
fly.' DAMN. IT'S A BEE!" 

Sailor: "Your eyes fascinate me — 
they're beautiful. I can see dew in them." 

Girl: "Take it easy, son. That ain't 
do — it's don't." 

Page Seventeen 

There once wa- a man not unique 
Who imagined himself quite a shique 

Hut the girls didn't fall 

For the fellow at all 
I [e made onlj twentj a w ique 

An impetuous student negotiated a date 
with a pair of Siamese twins one night. 

Have a <j< x >il lime?" asked his roommate 

"W ell. \ es and no," lie replied. 

Reporter: What shall I sa\ about the two 

blondes who made such a fuss at the game? 

Editor: Just sa\ that the bleachers went 

Help raise the devil while you live. ^ ou 

will meet him soon after you die and those 
who are best acquainted with him will gel 
the best -hovels. 

A Chiropractor is a guj who gets paid 

for what the ordinarv gin would get 
-lapped for. 

lie: I m a man id few words. Do you 

She: \u. hut you talked me into it. 
Sophomore: "The girls run after m\ 


Freshman: "So what? \fter mine, the) 


"Oh damn." -aid the ram a- lie fell over 
the cliff "I didn't -ec the 1 turn." 

\ woman was driving her car along the 
highwav at (>(• miles an hour. She noticed 

a motorcycle cop behind her and she 

|iu hed the car up to 7(1. Then she noticed 
two cops behind her and accelerated to 80 
mile- an hour and then' were three police- 
men following. Suddenl) -he -pied a gas 
station, so she pulled up in front of it and 
dashed into the ladies room. 

Ten minutes later she ventured out and 
found the three policemen waiting for her. 
I'll bet vou thought that I wouldn't make 
it." she said. 

\ fellow and his best girl were seated 

in a corner. 
"(live me a kiss, he pleaded. 

I he girl made no answer. 
"Won't vou please give me a klSS? 
he asked again. 

Still no answer. 

"Are vou deaf?'* he shouted at length. 

"No," she snapped. "Are vou para- 

» * a 

Little Boy: "Teacher, mav I leave the 

Teacher: "No. Ilenrv you -tav right 
lure and fill up the ink well-." 

Freshman: "I wish I had a nickel for 

ever] girl I've kissed. 

Sophomore: "What would vou do. huv a 
pack of gum'.'''" 

I'dtif Eighteen 

©dsps's MM&m@ 

By Joan Cope 

Page Nineteen 


BOTTLE! who hast reigned months upon 

this shelf. 
How much cobwebs and dust hast thou 

And wound around thee to disguise tin 

Thou, who with mops and rags ne'er be 

bothered ! 
In wretched guise, how man) folk deceived 

Thou, fiend, laughing behind tin fan so 

To hide tin face? \rt now. proud one. 


Since wast dethroned from loft \ heights 


Gaze not on me in tears from blood) pool. 
\nd lie dying amidst tin splintered hone-. 

To rot. oh arrogance! in garbage pail, 
Forever lost in mein of Bhining mail. 

1. Patterned after the Shakesperian sonnet. 
Editors V>t< ■: 

"Will, please BCCept our apologies. We 
won t let it happen again." 


Oh Little hug 
Of palest 

How came \e 
I p this 

The climb 

|s steep 

Slipper) : 
A fall 
From here 
W Ollld injure 


( (ime (low n. 

Oh bug 
Before too 
Or look 
For Peter's 
Golden (late. 

\n«l when 

^ ou hear 

I hose trumpets 


Don't ~.i\ 
I didn't 
Tell you 

I in sure 

M\ Mo in 
Cringe to 
Thai you 


Her shoulders 


Mere lie 

I he remains 

\ hug 
W Ol H 11/ 
Too hig 

For Ins 
Caterpillar fuz. 

Hage Twenty 


When rivers cease their tireless flow 
And stormy winds no longer blow : 
When starry skies lose their glow, 
Then well no more a-roving go. 


Hoisting its silver sails, the moon 
Rolls in on a misty sea; 
Whispers o'er each sand dune 
And lights a path for me. 

The peace, the calm, the hush 
Of it, seem to call to me — 
Then are swallowed up in the rush 
Of the restless, growling sea. 


He was big, and bold, and oh, so tough! 
He was mighty handsome, and knew his 

He was a king-size cat 
And king he was — 
Even crowned with a hat 
Of roval fuzz. 

Fenwick the Conqueror, Prince of Felines, 
Knew the ropes, but not the vines. 
In tree-top high, chasing rival fair. 

He leaped for a vine which wasn't there. 
And now the angels, in heaven above, 
Mourn with us the loss of Fenny, our love. 


Swept by the call of the rolling sea 
And wildness of the wind, 
My spirit sighs, but cannot find 
Peace of mind from Thee. 

There out of the black and stormy night. 
Tossed with the salty spray, 

The snowy gull wings into sight 
And teaches me to pray. 

Now at last my soul is free; 
It's cry rings out across the sea, 
Is caught, and lost in the angry roar, 
And laid at rest on the ocean floor. 

I'atie Twenty-one 


Hleak winter, on her steed of white. 
Came roaring through the autumn night 
And beckoned to the leaves of gold. 
\\ ith icj fingers, raw and cold. 
She hrought the wind, the sleet, the snow: 
Spread o'er the earth with brilliant glow 
A hlanket — soft, and still, and deep, 
And lulled the weary world to sleep. 

When the West wind forgot to blow, 
March left her foot prints in the -now — ■ 
I lnii >pr i iiu came laughing o'er the hill 
\iul woke each sleeping daffodil. 
She gave the sk\ its azure hue 
And swept the mountains bright with dew : 

She dipped the grass and em'rald green 
And crowned the flowered countrv — green. 


When walken we downe the street. 

W bom should we happen to unci 

Hut hem. the h\ane vender. 

He lippen his hat — look, no hairc! 
Frome w ashen out eyen, a glass\ stare. 
When gaze on \e he hendee. 

Hi? gaunt, childish face 
fin ken into a simple sm\le: 
n cheer) warmth it lendee. 

A tooth he has. just here and there 

And empt) spaces fill in elsewhere; 

Hut still, his grvn is fricndlee. 

I pon his hack, his sliirt is blue; 

His jeans are darker h\ a shade or two 
With no s\gn of a mendee. 

Over Ins arm. his hasket of Inane-. 
And kindlin on the side, are his only 

m\ anes; 

— Ma\he that's win he's s<i -pindlee. 

He's a carde. a character, a part of the 

He s even Complying with the pioneer rule ' 
\ heard on him s not unsightlee 

Now take (arc id the squirrels and pigeons 
That fly — 
I i II anon, vender, we'll hid ye goodbye, 

And we'll take our leave most 


1. In the past \rmstrong has held a pio- 
neer week in which all the hoys grow 

1'au.e Twenty 4wo 


By Shirley Hoffman 

Tall and slim and strong of bone 
His silver mane against the sky 
And conquering spirit in his eye. 
Hooves striking fire upon the stone. 

Muscles ripple 'neath his skin. 
A coat of shimmering, shining gold. 
The gilded horse of legends told 
Who races with the wildest wind. 

Rearing, pawing at the air. 
Mighty master, not alone 
Calling to the one, his own. 
Calling to a sun-gold mare. 

Callop together, their heads held high 
Against the golden sunset sky. 


By Bob Jones 

The raindrop sprinkled garden, it's ivy cov- 
ered wall, 

The straight magnolia trees that rise above 
the hall, 

And the beauty of the ancient shrubs and 
all here laid within, 

Rest like the old Gethsemane apart from 
mortal din. 

The early morning sunrise, the late mid- 
summer eve, 

The impatient ocean winds that stir the 
willow leaves, 

And the cooing of the pidgeon in the silence 
of the night, 

Echoes throughout the darkness like the 

footsteps of a sprite. 

The ivy covered walls are gone, 
The pidgeons come no more at dark. 
The beauty of the shrubs is dead, 
The gate is but a still landmark. 

Page Twenty-three 

Pane Twenty-foui 







MARCH, 1952 


Quarterly Magazine by the Students of Armstrong College 

Savannah, Georgia 

Volume 5 


Number 1 



R. L. Dolgoff 

Eleanor V. Goldberg 


Molly Barnhardt 

.lean Bolen 
-lack Golden 
Barbara Lawing 
Bill Wilson 


Betty Burriss 
Debra Swartz 

Sue Cunningham 
Joan Hughes 


Glenda Highsmith 

Sally Mirsky 

Betty Johnson 
Jackie Taylor 




HOUSE PARTY _____ „ 3 






















When we first sat down to think of an editorial (after 
being hounded for weeks by varied and sundry shades with 
sledge hammers, in the forms of E. (Poodle) Goldberg and H. 
(Housemaid) Murphy), we considered writing on school spirit, 
the lack of it, and if we had it, what would be in it for us. 

When we thought about the topic of school spirit, we were 
somewhat caught up in the maelstrom of pessimism which 
apparently exists, but wishing to reach concrete conclusions, 
we realized that we would necessarily have to dismiss as many 
of our preudices as possible, formed by the pessimistic minor- 
ity, and start out freshly in an objective. manner. 

Armstrong is a great college! 

The opportunities for students to participate in activities 
of their own choice are here, available right now and are being 
used. We believe that these activities are not in the doldrums, 
but are really enjoying the heights of spirit and activity. This 
year and its numerous activities, amply prove this point. 

Our Science, Math, Newman clubs, and Beta Lambda are 
organizations which can truthfully look back on a successful 
two quarters and look forward to an even more wonderful 
spring quarter. In spite of adverse weather conditions, the 
Home-coming Parade and other activities were huge successes, 
even with our basketball team's loss to the College of Charles- 
ton in the Home-coming game. Beginning with the Freshman- 
Sophomore get together, and following through with all the 
other dances, both formal and informal, the students of Arm- 
strong have shown enthusiasm and a desire to know each other 
better and promote school spirit. 

Our Glee Club has a real challenge ahead, and the same 
goes for our basketball team, but we should consider that these 
clubs have been operating under handicaps. One, the change 
of directors, causing a loss of time, and the other, operating 
under numerous injuries (plus the fact that fate was agin' 

The Geechee will certainly (according to all reports) be 
a banner success. Our Inkwell is having, if not the greatest 
year of its existence, one of the best ever had by that news- 
paper. The Boy's and Girl's Intramural Leagues have been 
the scenes of intense rivalry, unmatched for competition for 
many years past. 

The Debate Team had the largest turn out in years 
and enjoyed a successful season. The Masquers, as usual, 
have shown all sorts of talent and the new Radio Workshop 
promises to be one of the best attended activities in our school. 

The Film Series which were generously attended at first, and 
then eagerly anticipated, are having an extremely successful 

Certainly there are gripes, but to our mind, these are few 
and extremely far between. Where is the new gym home 
for P. E. classes and the basketball team ? 

It is our fond hope that those, who have perhaps read 
this far, have realized fully the scope of Armstrong. They 
will recognize the need for far greater economic support on 
the part of our City Fathers, so as to advance, enlarge, and 
expedite those deeds and fulfillment of the needs of our stu- 
dent body. 

To Mr. Murphy we express our deepest appreciation for 
his willing cooperation without which we could not have com- 
pleted this issue so successfully. Also to Mrs. Lubs, Mr. 
Killorin, and Mr. Clarke, who served as judges in our literary 
contest, we wish to express our gratitude. 

Our appreciation cannot be measured so fas as our grati- 
tude towards our typists is concerned. They worked many 
long and difficult hours to make this publication possible. 
Our deepest appreciation, in particular, to Sally Mirsky and 
Glenda Highsmith for their splendid jobs as Staff typists and 
to Jackie Taylor for her original and highly appropriate 
artistic sketches. 



By Jennie Lynn 

A week-end house party — I could have asked for nothing 
more. I had been looking forward to it for weeks. Now, at 
last, we were there, already unpacked, and settled. I was 
awaiting the arrival of a marvelous evening with Bill. 

When I first told him that Quis Qui was going to have 
its party this week-end, a wonderful smile illuminated his 
face. This smile is really what made me want to come, even 
more than the fun of being with the girls, all "on our own, 
cooking our own meals." 

Forty-eight of us "sisters," grouped in fours, were stay- 
ing in twelve small cottages. All afternoon there was a 
constant stream of friendly visitors flowing in and out of 
each door, as each girl was eagerly inquiring which girl had 
a date with what boy. It seemed everyone else was being 
asked who was dating Wylie, Tommy, and Bill, the darling 
captain of our basketball team. Well, why didn't they ask 
me about Bill having a date? I certainly was the only one 
that would know. Although he hadn't put it into words, his 
smile had told me that he was coming. I couldn't wait ! 

I spent the rest of the afternoon deciding which blouse 
I would wear, the pink or white? What color would Bill like 
on me? He once told me that I looked good in pink, yet the 
white was prettier. I also had to plan an interesting con- 
versation. (After all, on your first date with your only crush, 
you should certainly be interesting). I would talk about 
basketball all night, if necessary. The supper had to wait at 
least long enough for me to roll up my hair. Anyway, who 
could possibly have wanted to eat, that night, of all nights? 
Bill couldn't have chosen a better nitrht for our first date. The 
weather was like Heaven — warm that afternoon, and the night 
was just turning cool. The palm leaves were beginning to 
rustle. We must take a moonlight walk on the beach. There 
had to be a moon — a full moon. 

I guessed it was getting late. Sally turned on the lights. 
I had better get ready. I didn't want to keep Bill waiting, 
especially this night. I chose the pink blouse with the black 
skirt. I was so glad that I had decided to bring the black 
shoes. Bill was nearly there — I felt it inside. My lipstick 
went on crookedly — and now my hair! Oh, hurry Bill! 

A quick glance at the clock. Nine-thirty ! No, it was after 

that. When would he come? Maybe he had trouble with his 
awful car, or maybe the clock was wrong? 

Surely it was wrong — an hour couldn't have passed. What 
if he had had a wreck? The road was BO terribly bad. ,It 
should have been fixed long ago. Bill Kelley in a wreck! I 
know I would rather die. Bill, our captain. Why the basket- 
ball team would be nothing without wonderful Bill. My Bill. 

The door opened and I said. "Why, Mary, come in, what 
on earth are you doing back so soon? You certainly look like 
you're floating on clouds. Come over here and tell me." 

That was funny — 1 hadn't ever noticed it before. W T hat 
did Mary have around her neck? Jeepers, it was a beautiful 
silver basketball! 1 didn't even know she played. 

Mary looked at me puzzled and surprised — as I read the 
cruel letters on her basketball — B. K. — captain '48. 


By Jean Bolen 

My hurried heartbeats flutter loud and clamorous. I can 
not quiet them. They pound and pound. 

A misty cloud engulfs me. .Mysteriously it keeps out all 
traces of earthly things. Only trickles of knowledge seep in 
to let me know that the world still moves on. For me every- 
thing has stopped. 

My racing pulse! I cannot keep up with it. 1 cannot count 
the many sensations flowing through my veins and arteries. 

My heart aches with the uncertainty of what is happen- 
ing. I cannot explain it. One moment 1 am high pitched as 
a tightly strung string of a violin. I'm happy, gay. Stars 
encircle my brow, and the flowers in the field bow to greet 
me. Sweet dreams fill my heart and soul. Then as if someone 
had changed the station of a radio — I am sad, depressed. 
The world looks dark and forbidding. Where can I turn? 
Tears flood my soul as if trving to wash away the heartaches. 
Nightmares constitute my thoughts. 

I must get away from all this. l"m running quickly — 
away away. I cannot get away. Only further do 1 sink into 
the dewy mist which surrounds me. 1 want to go on and let 
myself go, yet I hold back, uncertain. The presence of you 
drives me on. Everywhere I turn, there you are! 

I'm falling deeper into the sad sweetness. Down, down 
and still further down 1 cannol stop. I'm falling, falling in 
lovi » 

I I 


By Donald Cone 

As I stood alone one summer's twilight 
Gazing far into the crimson sky, 

I saw upon the deepening horizon 
A heron, drifting slowly by. 

Of what lonely river bank or marshland, 
Of what quiet pond or placid stream, 

Of what wide and gently sloping meadow 
Did this traverser of the heavens dream? 

I stood there long minutes watching 
The bird pursue its solitary flight. 

Its form grew dimmer, ever dimmer, 
And finally disappeared into the night. 

A melancholy feeling pained within me ; 
Those wild wings now forever lost 
from sight. 
Oh how I longed to follow that great 
wanderer ; 
Follow him in his dreamy flight. 

That melancholy permeated through me. 

It pierced my soul through like an 
arrow's rod, 
And I felt strange and full of knowing, 

For in the heron's flight I'd seen my God. 

As I stood, a star began to twinkle. 

The crimson had faded to the black of night. 
Yet there I stood, still visualizing 

The heron in its homeward flight. 


It came slowly from afar 
Thunder on its wings 
Of clashing air the skys guitar 
An unseen hand plucking at the strings. 


By Maurice Ayrer 

The small crane lowered the burned novarnic ray .as- 
sembly into the automatic disassembler. 

Ekvar settled back in his chair with a smile. The day's 
work was over, but his smile was for mere than that. To 
day saw the completion of his project — his masterpiece. He'H 
show that silly safety council. Just because he disregarded 
a few paltry metallurgical stresses in the construction of a 
ship, they had grounded him and forbade him further oppor- 
tunity to build ships. The board had thought they were get- 
ting rid of him by putting him in this salvage dump. The 
stupid fools never reckoned on his unsurpassable genius. 

And now at last he'd done it; he'd designed and con- 
structed his own ship. He'd combined everything he always 
dreamed of into one beautiful ship. It was small, only a one- 
man job. and it was powerful, more powerful than any ship 
the interplanetary traffic department ever dreamed of. 

Now his car climbed up to the isolated launching site. He 
climbed into the small cockpit and readied for blast off. 

He checked the makeshift controls, settled into his home- 
made acceleration couch and pressed the blast-off button. 
The blackout was complete but he saw by the clock that it 
hadn't lasted long — only a few seconds. 

The radio blared — Interplanetary Traffic was demanding 
recognition and immediate de-acceleration. He cursed tri- 
umphantly at the senseless fools and dared them to stop him. 

Almost immediately three large Pips appeared on the 
radar screen and he knew that they'd already launched their 
West pursuit ships. This is what he'd hoped for — they'd de- 
cided to try to outrun him rather than gun him down. His 
escape was assured now he could outrun their little kiddie 
cars, but even he couldn't outrun a nova-ray. He was out in 
outer space now where most ships went into free fall, but 
not this little parade. 

As he slowed a little, the pursuit ships began to approach. 
One appeared through the side window. He let them get close 
enough: now he'd show them real speed. He turned the 
reactor lever to "full on." The acceleration was almost as 
much as on blast off, the pursuit ships slipped quickly behind 
him and soon were gone. Ekvar chuckled silently to himself. 

Suddenly the ship ran into that inexplicable phenomenon 
f space — Time Warp — an effect that throws an object thou- 

sands of years ahead or behind in time. The enormous strain 
of the warp had a telling effect on the "interstellar hot-rod," 
and when the reactor-motor gave way, the fuel instantly 
converted the entire ship into a glowing mass of energy. 

"And there were in the same country shepherds abiding 
in the field, keeping watch over the flock by night. 
And, lo, they saw a star in the east . . ." 


By Emmett Rahl Hand 

A somber note is struck for the day as an all enveloping 
blackness cuts the fog and lies like a blanket over the little 
village. Townsfolk, none of whom have slept for three days. 
crowd the streets and lanes of the dark hamlet. Worn, 
white-washed houses stand as beacons awaiting a final ex- 
tinguishing blow which will erase all trace of their ancestral 
architecture and skill. Gnarled oaks in the town square han'i" 
limp knowing somehow, as if touched by an innate wisdom, 
the impending fate which will be theirs. Sobbing children, 
young and old, cling to mothers while fathers desperately try 
to reassure them both. Young men in despair search every- 
where for weapons but their elders realizing the futility of 
all resistance consign themselves to their fate. The eyes of 
everyone turn first toward the river, then to the mountains, 
then to the heavens, back to the mountains and back to the 
river in a never ending circle always searching, searching . . . 

Panic, like a fungus growth has taken hold slowly but 
surely and as if guided by some unseen force a mass move- 
ment begins. Old and young, rich and poor, all together, all 
faces, all bodies, all feet, grasped by some obsession turn to- 
ward the decaying ruins of the ancient cathedral facing the 
plaza. Christianity long since disappeared from this com- 
munity. Only a legend remains. A woman mounts the 
crumbling steps and reaching into her closely wrapped shawl 
draws forth an old faded black book. 

There is a blinding flash of light. The darkness is split. 
A celestial glow envelops everything. With fading vision the 
the woman surveys the whole village on its knees and in a 
trembling hollow voice pronounces the eulogy which sounds 
a knell to them all. 

"Behold, the Lord cometh with thousands of His saints." 


By Duncan King 

The following pages describe an imaginary \ 
to Walden by one of Thoreau's old classmates. The 

events taking place in this story are not factual and 
arc not intended as such. 

The engine slowed to a rasping stop and. as the entire 

train engaged in a last convulsive lurch, tired husbands reached 
overhead to retrieve parcels resting on the baggage racks. 
weary feet painfully uncoiled from around suitcases, and ma- 
trons miraculously produced lunch boxes from beneath seats. 
With one accord, this crowding press of humanity had begun 
the business of disembarking. When the car was quite empty, 
Thomas Wyatt leisurely climbed to his feet and with a yawn 
of boredom expressing his complete distaste for the common 
element, stepped down on the heavy planking that formed 
Concord Station. Up above, a grey forbidding sky presses 
down somberly and the sides of the station glistened wetly 
after the recent rain. The narrow road stretching down to 
the town abounded in mud puddles. The station was deserted 
now as he stood, cigarette in hand, gazing pensively down at 
the mud-splotched street. 

Confound this town, anyway! What beastly idea had 
prompted him to leave his comfortable lodgings in Boston and 
set out to see his old classmate Thoreau. Those infernal let- 
ters of the man probably. When had the last one come.' 
Tuesday, that was it ; a long thing about the classes and the 
masses, but it had done the trick. Something about them set 
you thinking. Rain began to fall and he stepped under the 
eaves of the building. Qp the road a call moved slowly in the 
direction of the station. 

Wyatt hated discomfort; his entire life had been spent 
in the most pleasant manner possible. As a child, the estate 
at Bainbridge, green grass, sail boats. Matti, the colored nurse. 
His whim, a command. Now it was still the easy life, rich 
food, smooth and beautiful women. Parties and gaiety re- 
placed the sail boats, that was all. Of course when he grew 
older, women would become more expensive ... A line of 
verse ran through his mind. "Let me lie a tune swept fiddle- 
llg that feels the master melody — and snaps." The thought 
of becoming senile appalled him. The cab had arrived. Wyatt 
snuffed out his cigarette and stepped down accross the splat- 
tered boardwalk. 

The shack was a simple one. A square affair of old 


boards and roughly hewn logs in which scrap sheets of tin 
patched the roof. The ground around the structure was bare 
and trampled down, broken only by a small patch of garden 
at the back. High weeds and bushes rose up in the rear and 
encircled the shack, extending down to the edge of the pond. 
The man lying on his back in the sunshine was not easily dis- 
cerned. He was dozing, half asleep, his belt loosened, his arms 
folded over his chest. Half an hour ago he had seen a man 
crossing a ridge that bounded the farside of the pond. There 
was only one place for the man to go ; that was his shack. 
He would wait for him. A moment later, a twig snapped. 
Thoreau stirred ; the guest had arrived. 

Wyatt was tired; the grass still damp from the recent 
rain had soaked his trouser legs and they clung wetly to his 
calves. He stood now, displeased at what he saw before him 
and mildly regretting that he had come at all. 

Thoreau was speaking: "So, you've come, Tom; I'd rather 
hoped to get you here. It's been so long, you know. I've 
changed, that's apparent ;and yourself; a little fatter, a little 
sleeker. The world has treated you well." Wyatt stepped 
forward, "I do have an ulterior motive in coming, Thoreau. 
You know the Wymberly club, very swank and all that; well 
J've been hashing over those letters of yours with a group of 
friends there, and frankly, your ideas and way of life pique 
my curiosity." "Ah, so it is to be a discussion then ! So few 
have ideas of anv sort. In the house? No, here on the 
ground, my friend. Nature's own hearth board ! Houses are 
for inclement weather." Thoreau was gently nudging a grass- 
hopper with a long straw. He smiled, "You wonder why I 
have no friends? The answer is simple. Our world is filled 
with pleasant acquaintances, fair weather friends. I have 
many such in the village. Their pleasant good mornings as 
I pass down the street are very cheering; I dare say that if 
it became known that I intended to borrow five dollars, each 
and every one would furtively dodge around corners to avoid 
me. And my friends, my classmates at Harvard, how would 
they receive me today. With warmth and welcome ? I rather 
think that each would fear for his own social standing if he 
so much as shook hands with me. Humanity, how perfect 
and yet how imperfect! My best friends are animals; they; 
are sincere." The soft plop of a jumping fish carried to them 
from across the lake. Wyatt shifted his position. "What 
about women; man's primal urgre? That sort of thing. A 
wife, someone to care for you ?" Thoreau had been toying with 
a large black ant which was futilely tracing up and down his 
hand in an effort to escape. He smiled. "Women, they are 
only good to keep the bed warm on cold winter nights." 

Wyatt studied the man before him. The short choppy 
beard, the unkempt hair, overalls blackened from wear, the 

soiled collar. "And what about medicine? the Balm of 
Gilead?" he asked. Thoreau snorted, "Medicine? Doctors? 
I have no use for them. Their insidious practice of referring 
patients among themselves, for mutual profit, revolts me! 
Nature is my physician, peace, freedom from care, that's your 
secret to health. Every hour of the day is mine. I am sub- 
jugated by no man and show deference to none. I subscribe 
to no social dictum. Fashions have no influence on my dress. 
If there is a heaven, I will go there." 

Hours passed and the two talked on — Wyatt resting on 
the ground, his back against the wall of the shack — Thoreau 
pacing to and fro — gesticulating — expostulating — the man's 
brown beard vibrating with the force of his words. "When 
we consider life but a split second in the realm of infinity. 
why should we not take the path of least resistance?" 

The rabbit had come hopping quietly across the clearing 
and now he suddenly leaped on the tree stump standing at 
the rear of the shack. Silence had fallen on the little group 
with the advent of the rabbit ; Thoreau's speech had trailed off 
in a whisper and now he stared, fascinated by the animal. In 
the face of the rabbit, he saw the sensitivity of his soul — 
what he did not see was the hand of Wyatt stealing under his 
vest and emerging, clasping a short -barreled Derringer. 
Wyatt's eyes narrowed — his finger squeezed the trigger; the 
shot struck the rabbit behind the shoulder — the body tumble- 
saulting five feet into the air to land against the stumps edge. 
"Got him!" Wyatt cried laughingly, setting down the pistol 
before rushing over to inspect the dead animal. "That was 
absolutely my best . . ." His voice trailed off as his eyes 
looked into Thoreau's. Cold rage was there and hate. Neither 
man moved or spoke. The moment of deathly stillness before 
the storm. Thoreau's hands began to remove the leather belt 
which encircled his waist — and then he leaped — the burning 
lash of the leather seared Wyatt's check. Klood streamed 
down the front of his shirt. He raised his hands ineffectually 
under the rain of blows. Thoreau was grunting — his breath 
coming in short gasps as he swung. 

Wyatt screamed, fell to his knees and scrambled back to his 
feet. He attempted to run for the edge of the clearing, tripped 
and rolled on his side as again and again the strap rose and 
fell. Once more he attained his feet and ran pell-mell for 
the cover of the brush. . . . The blows had ceased. Diving 
through the bushes, a last look over his shoulder revealed 
Thoreau standing exhaused against the side of his shack, his 
arms akimbo, his chin upon his chest, his belt trailing the 
ground. At that instant the red face looked up; the bleary 
eyes glared after the retreating figure lending impetuousness 


to its flight. Terror filled Wyatt's body, swelled against his 
ribs, hammered at his heart — His breath came in soft racking 
sobs as he scrambled up the hill side; once he fell while cross- 
ing a gulley but clawed his way up the other bank. Blood 
mixed with sweat, clouded his eyes, stung his back. Only 
when the buildings of Concord came in sight did his pace 
slacken, only then did his feeling of panic begin to give way 
to one of revenge and vindictiveness. 

As the gray dawn crept up in the east, the silhouette of 
a man could have been seen making his way from the banks 
of Walden, winding up the path across the ridge, into the trees 
and out of sight. Thus did Thoreau after two years, four 
months of solitary residence leave Walden — never to return 
again. A man who could not escape the world! 


By Hetty Burrisa 

The trees' firm branches upward wind 
To touch the blue; 

As man may seek, but seldom hope find 
A heart that's true. 

While far above lift's never ceasing tide 
Fair fades the day ; 
In flaming golden hues that briefly bide 
And then, away. 

Draw nigh, yon pale shadows of the eve 
And calm the dell. 

What though the misty twilight 'oft deceive 
And cast its spell? 

Yet evening fades and twilight is a dream 
Beheld afar; 

While through the coming darkness, lo. is seen. 
One twinkling star. 

By Betty Burrisa 

With golden promise from the softened shades 

of night 

To lend to melancholy shadow, fairest light. 
Where darkness lies. 

Above the graj and misty somberness of sea 


And from the haunting sadness of the centuries 

In glory glide. 

And ta each heart lend forth your gift of golden spun 

To hope for. when Night's darkest hour, lo, is done. 


By Betty Burriss 

Now angry, sullen, rise thy heights 
Above the reach of mortal clasp, 
As if to form the timeless flights 
Of ages, mortals cannot grasp. 
Behold, thy flaming anvils light 
The world below in eerie flame, 
To turn again to blackest night 
Thy heraldry of pounding rain. 
Then through thy heights tempestuous, 
The evening star! a pulsing light! 
While all thy wrath dies meaningless 
Before the coming hush of night. 

By Betty Burriss 

I've swept the rocky crag, and hurled my anger at her brow. 
With screaming fury I have lashed the sea, 
Until from out their hoary prison walls desponds slough 
I am set free. 

I've laughed into the ugly face of mortal doom, 
And hissed "impostor," and raised high my sword 
To smite her shadow, cursed balm for bleading hearts, yes, 

That overlord. 

A hungry lioness, when as evening's darkness hides the day, 

I leapt the wall of shadowed fantasy, 

Of deathly vision, and with quickened scent I've stocked away 

my prey, 
Of imagery. 

And thought, at last, to see that far horizon of my dream, 
For fairer lands and brights hopes were mine; 
I knew fate's gift of fevered hope for that unseen 
One touch, divine. 

But when, as with the lightened heart of angels, I am free 
To sweep the highest crags of mortal price; 
Alas ! hath slipped my grasp, those fated works, alone, my plea 
For Paradise. 



Ry Jean Rolen 

The wind howled and whistled through the trees. It 

seemed to slip in through every crack making the room cold 
as death. The cabin walls seemed to shake and slip from the 
hill top. The room was dim. The only light came from the 
last glowing embers on the hearth. 

I'm so like that fire. Once my body was flaming with 
vigor and health, and now it is lacking that which makes 
living-life. The fire, too, blazed high, and now only sparks 

The firelight makes figures dance on the wall in weird 
and mysterious fashions. Memories surge in my breast. 
Thoughts dart in and out of my mind as if they were children 
playing in a flower garden. But one thought remains fixed — 
my time has come, I'm going to die. 

With me on the hill in the house is my love. My love for 
the winter frost and spring flowers — for the moonlight and 
stars — for you. 

I can see your face enshrined by the firelight. Your 
eyes seem tender, but sad. I think I see tears in them. Your 
brow is furrowed with care. Your lips quiver slightly as you 
send up silent prayer. Your hands are clasped. Then you 
reach out your hand to me. but I am not there. 

Your sobs penetrate the wall of the house. The pounding 
of them crushes in on me. The phantom of death steals upon 
the scene blotting all inklings of life from my body. My fire 
has gone out. 

Only you and your memories stand on the hill. The house 
is gone. On a hill far away, my house now stands. You see, 
the house is my soul. 



By Debra Swartz 

Help! Save me — I'm dying! These hearting-rending 
screams filled my ears. There they lay. Old men, women, 
and children — all victims. 

For hours I had seen these helpless creatures make des- 
perate attempts to get up from their make-shift beds on the 

Finally I couldn't stand any more of it. I had to go out 
into the fresh air and clear my head. 

I started walking — no place in particular — just walking. 
The debris lay around my feat everywhere. After walking for 
sometime, I found myself in front of my home, which was now 
a pile of bricks and demolished furniture. 

My mother — my father — my brother — where were they? 
Frantically I ran back to the shelter. There they were; the 
three of them — on their knees praying. 

My head was clear now. I remembered. I had just lived 


If I could run away — not just from you, 

But from the dreams that somehow went astray, 

If I could put long distant miles 

Between the present and the lovely yesterday; 

I wonder if my heart would know release. 

From pain and tears, from thoughts of what has been ? 

If I could find beyond some distant hill 

A new dream I could cling to once again. 

I'm not brave enough I know to try, 
I don't want a new love, only you, 
My aching heart is wise enough to know, 
No second love, no substitute would do; 
I could not run away — sometime you 
May have need of me, a longing to be near, 
My heart, my life belong to you, my love. 
If you should ever want me, I'll be here. 



By Maurice A. Ayrer 

It was fate. They were meant for each other. She was 
driving a jeep down a little dustv road toward the rear area. 
His jeep had broken down and he was walking in the same 
direction. She stopped to pick him up and they met. 

Their thoughts, their interests, their hopes, their worries, 
everything dove-tailed right from the start. They parted, 
but only to meet again. They made a date for the next 
Sunday for a drive. 

She was young, beautiful, a lieutenant in the nurses. He 
was a little older, but no less good looking, a captain in the 
air force. 

The next Sunday was perfect. They walked in an open 
field and just before they started home, he kissed her. It was 
not a stolen kiss; it was given and fully shared by both 
of them. , 

The week that followed saw them almost drunk with 
happiness and love. They always met in that same field 
where they had first walked. So what if it was a little forward 
of the rear area? Winter was coming on, and there were 
rumors of a North Korean offensive. They may not have their 
field too long. 

Then one bright wonderful day. almost like the day they 
had met, only a little cooler, he proposed. She anticipated it 
and wasn't taken with any surprise. 

She teasingly told him to let her think it over a while. 
Then, when they'd walked about twelve steps further, she 
told him that she'd thought long enough, and that as his wife, 
she'd be the happiest woman in the world. 

The rest of the day was beyond all description in its hap- 
piness. Late that afternoon they returned to the jeep and 
started back. 

A grim-faced little man drops an object into a short tube 
and it hurtles back with a sound like a carpet-beater striking 
a dust rug. 

A jeep skims down a dusty road toward an exquisite 

Two uniformed figures sit in the front seat. There is a 
sound like a gunshot in a huge cavern. 

The dust clears and the road is deserted, save for a few 
bits of broken metal and two broken bodies. 



By Jennie Lynn 

In December of nineteen forty-one, the words "We are 
at war" had no great significance to me. I just accepted this 
statement as a fact. I realized, of course, that it was an 
unpleasant event — but war was going on very far away be- 
tween peoples I had only heard of before, had never seen, 
didn't love. 

Last June the fourteenth of nineteen fifty, war was going 
on many miles away, but it was for me, a completely different 
experience. When the radio announced that Southern Korea 
had been attacked by its Communist neighbors, something 
hit hard. My father's home was in Seoul, the capital of 
Southern Korea. I had ten little cousins, four aunts, four 
uncles, and a grandfather living over there when Seoul was 
invaded. I had seen only two uncles, who went to school here, 
the others I can merely recognize in snapshots. Yet totally 
unlike my attitude nine years ago — even one year, one month 
before — when I had accepted without doubt or question that 
shocking and dreadful disturbances of war are undergone only 
by others, I conceived they could also happen to me and my 
own family. For the first time, I realized this was war. 

Although I have never actually gotten to know and love 
my father's people, from hearing him talk about them, I feel 
as though I do. Anyway, when someone you love very much 
and are very close to is disturbed, worried, anxious, you find 
that is good enough reason for you to be also. 

I realized my whole home life was changing. The radio 
restlessly performed and newspapers stared me in the face 
at the breakfast table. Not that our radio hadn't received 
attention before, or I hadn't read the newspapers until then, 
but I took more interest, listened with ardent concern, de- 
sired to read the newspaper of which before I had skimmed 
hurriedly, while trying to see if Kerry Drake had escaped 
his last ordeal, or if Jane had put an article in the paper 
about the dance last night. 

In the movies I sat in anxious expectation of the news- 
reel and found myself listening to the radio speeches through 
which I had recently caught up on the gossip friends had to 
offer, or finished a candy bar. Now those "dull" congressmen 
and other speech makers after all had something to say. 

In the last war, no one I had any feelings for was in 
the midst of the terrible fighting. This time not only rela 
tives, but boys with whom I went to school were called to 
fight. One night, one hundred and eighty marine reserves 


left for training in California and were to later g<> to Korea 

One hundred and eighty of OUR hoys! Grief filled the tra'n 
station, and for the second time, I knew that this was war. 
As tlu- train pulled out, the notes of Auld Lang Syne tore a 
our heartstrings and tears fled forth as we watched BWeet 
hearts we know kiss good-bye. 

I knew that I was growing up not only in ways 1 have 
mentioned; I now prayed for more important things; not the 
usual wish that Tom, Dick, and Harry would call and a-k me 
for a date, or that I could please have those lusc'ous purple 
velvet heels, but that Tom, Dick, and Harry would not get 
killed tonight or any night and that people across the sea 
and everywhere will once again find ha] pint 


By Cleo Hughes 

The sun is sinking in the West, bringing twilight to the 
mountain slopes. Twilight with shades of crimson fading 
out across the sky. An evening breeze infested with the aroma 
of honeysuckle and lilacs softly whisper through thr trees. 

The day is ending on the mountain and the tinkling of 
cow bells sound and resound over the slopes and down in the 
valley below. Looking down the winding roads one can .- 
small cottages with clinging vines neatly tucked away from 
the cares of the day. 

Obstacles meet with the horizon and slowly lade away 
into shades of deep purple and green. The evening stars 
appear like sapphires scattered through the heavens. Mingling 
shadows begin to play their usual tricks. 

The country beyond can be dimly seen as the cottage 
lights grope out into darkness. 

The hills of time are paying their debt as nature has 
destined. The idle hours of twilight when solitude holds sway 
is a debt of wonderous beauty no earthly mortal can repay. 



By Marjorie Hyers 

In a conversation between Mother and one of her friends, 
I overheard mom say " — and she's just eighteen! My hair 
will be snow-white before I manage to convert her into a 
young lady." 

Please don't misunderstand me — I wasn't sneaking in on 
that conversation — just meddling around! I immediately de- 
cided she was speaking of me since I'm the only member of 
our family who happens to be of that age. But could she have 
meant ME when she was speaking of her hair turning another 
color ? 

I still can't quite understand what this is all about, but I 
will give you some of the exciting events in my life and I 
believe you will agree with me that I am not abnormal and 
that I am truly not responsible for the silver in Mom's hair. 

First of all, I'm just a plain, average American girl. I 
don't know too much about my birth, because I never bothered 
Mom with all the particulars. I do know, however, that I was 
about as chubby as a six pound baby girl can get (that was at 
birth, of course) and that I made my entrance into this big 
world before breakfast. Mother said that has influenced my 
life greatly in terms of food with only one exception — that is 
the only time I ever had my breakfast on time ! Oh well, there 
are exceptions to all rules! 

One of my favorites of infancy was that I adored beau 
tiful legs. With this little thought in my mind I lay in Mom's 
lap and kicked. The sole reason for this was to develop the 
muscles in my legs. Otherwise, I wouldn't kick anyone in 
the stomach and especially my Mother. 

After my babyhood days were over, nothing happened 
to me that could possibly have frightened Mother, but I will 
mention a few events briefly in order for you to understand 
my view point on this great subject. 

When I was two, my brother, a year older, decided to 
become a painter. Of course, the subject he used for his very 
first lesson practice was me, and he did an exceptional job 
the first trial I should say! He painted me all over except 
for my sunsuit straps and the whites of my eyes. My hair 
wasn't too "paintable' so he poured an extra cupful of BLACK 
ENAMEL car paint on it. Mother didn't think my brother 
should paint any more, although I thought the touches he put 
on me were quite the finishing kind. Mother thought she was 
the one who was "finished" after bathing me in the tenth 


pan of kerosene (Dr. advised this). I'll never forget .Mom 
cried while washing me — That is another thing about her. 
she cries when she should be laughing. Don't you think that 
could have something to do with her grey hair? 

When I was four my brother, an exceptional carpenter for 
a five year old, built a nice swing in our play-yard. I had the 
first swing and just as I was enjoying flying through the 
air, I fell out, and on somthing too. Yes, you guessed it— on 
Mom's favorite china picther that I had broken only the day 
before. (I couldn't help breaking it) and it was Mother's old 
pitcher that caused me to cut my arm, go to the hospital, 
and suffer for the next few weeks. After about three weeks, 
on this beautiful sunny day, Mom gave me permission to go 
outdoors and sit in the sun. Immediately, 1 noticed the sun 
was probably warmer up in the tree since there it is nearer 
the sun, so I climbed up using my good arm. Mother found 
this out, like she does everything else that I do, and after she 
stopped yelling I came down. Please take note, she got excited 
over nothing, simply nothing again. 

Then, I began school, and my teachers all smiled at me 
with a noticeable sigh. 1 didn't understand them, so 1 asked 
Mom what they meant, or the cause for their silly actions. 
She just grinned and said. "Yes, child, I sympathize with 
them." I still don't know what she meant either, but as I 
stated before, I try not to trouble my Mother over little trifles. 

The following years were similar to any growing girls. 
I stayed too late at a friend's house on the night of a train 
wreck in our neighborhood, and Mom thought I was the 
victim of this disaster until the searcher she had gotten found 
me; I ate a whole box of Bayer's aspirin, 1 cut my own hair 
with bangs in front (ten years old), I fried some goldfish that 
belonged to Mother's friend; I broke some gadget in the car 
on the day Dad bought it (it seems it stopped running). I 
forgot and pulled the chair back when Grandmother was 

attempting to sit down, and several other happenings thai 

I won't go into, because 1 don't believe 1 need to mention them 
in order to finish my little story. 

Mother did not reason with me on any of these (men- 
tioned above) occasions. She let her temper help her find the 
answer which was always punishment, and she is still using 
the same method. If, maybe, she laughed with me. instead of 
getting excited and mad. she might have, today, the lovely 
black hair she had on the day I was born. 

I tried to tell Mother that there could be some scientific 
reason for this new growth or color in her hair, but Mother 
still thinks I am to blame. 

P. S. Wonder what Mom and her friend will discuss next ? 



By Cleo Hughes 

Watching the sea from dawn to night can bring one 
happiness, despair and a sense of things which can only be 
felt in the presence of the mysterious sea. Perhaps it is 
because we see how it overwhelms, devours and destroys, or 
perhaps this mystery is the mystery of life itself. 

Dawn comes up dark and grey across the sea weaving 
misty shadows. Now and then a reflection of silver light is 
caught by a splashing wave. The sea changes with the ad- 
vancing hours of early morn. Changing lights, colors, shifting 
shadows of clouds move across the surface. 

The noon comes bringing rays of light which are reflected 
below the surface in the deep waters. 

The waves call out wordlessly, yet ever so meaningfully. 
Shrieking gales cry out sounds of warnings, rolling waves 
speak softly as they break and surge at the shore. The waves 
are the sea's emotions and voice rolled into one. 

The sea is never at rest. It is a playground of rolling 
waves passing, intermingling, overtaking, and often engulfing 
one another. A sea where gulls alight and fish set ripples 
into motion. Coming towards the shore the thundering waves 
give way to the under land and slack in their speed. 

Noon changes quickly into evening and the azure lights 
fade away into deep night. The moon comes up across the 
waves in a shimmer of silver and the reflection of twinkling 
stars glitter in the water. Night is here in all its glory, but 
this darkness of night does not bring rest. The sea rolls on 
and on majestically around the world, forever. 


By D. Rahl Lewis 

The silent people walk with empty loads. 
Empty hearts. Empty faces. All empty. 
The silent people say nothing. Do nothing. 
They sit dumbly. They stand silently. 
Past merges with a future quickly 
In these people then slips quietly away. 
Pray! You silent people, pray! 




Salmon (I found the one who was barracuda) Angelfish 
(Editor's note. If that shrimp expects to mackerel have 
me to reckon with!) 


There was a young damsel named Carol 
Who liked to play stud for apparel. 
Her opponent's straight flush 
Rrought a maidenly blush 
And a hasty trip home in a barrel. 

A lusty young wench in Toledo 

Had a very inflated libido. 

When a couple of Finns 

Made her mother of twins 

She just hollered with joy, "Oh, you keedo." 

A man stopped his girl friend in Brussels 

And charged, "You are wearing two bustli 

She declared, "That's not true; 

It's a thing I don't do. 

You are merely observing my muscles." 

A magician who came from Vt. 
Sawed a woman in half for a stt. 
When she mildly asked whether 
He would put her together 
He replied "I've decided I wt." 


COLLECTED POEMS (continued) 

A lovely young girl named 

Anne Heuser 
Declared that no man could 

surprise 'er. 
But a fellow named Gibbons 
Untied her Blue Ribbons 
And now she is sadder 


A lass who weighed many 

an oz. 
Used words that nice girls 

don't pronoz. 
When a prankster unkind 
Yanked her chair from behind 
Just to see, he explained, 

if she'd boz. 

A senior at lunch in Purdue 

Discovered a mouse in his stew. 

Said the waiter," Don't shout 

And display it about 

Or the profs will be wanting one too." 

''Madam," said the kennel owner to the nouveau riche 
sportswoman, 'I offer you this thoroughbred bloodhound." 
"How do I know it's a bloodhound?" she asked doubtfully. 
Hector, the owner ordered the dog, "bleed for the lady."' 


Aunt Jemima lumbered into a village depot clutching 
the hand of a pig-tailed little girl, and said, "One ticket fer 
Carolina." "What part of Carolina?" asked the station agent. 
"All of Carolina," said Aunt Jemima. "Dis am Carolina holdin' 
man hand." 

News item from the Phoenix Flame: "Miss Fay King was 
overcome by gas while taking a bath. She owes her life to 
the watchfulness of the janitor of her apartment building." 

"Last night," reported Private Higgins, "1 finally per- 
suaded mv girl to say 'yes.'" "Congrats." said his buddy, 
"When's the wedding?" "Wedding?" said Higgins, "What 

We know you haven't heard this new one quoted from 
the Deathly, 111., Daily Gazette, "The one about the Aber- 
deenian who went behind the barn the night before Christmas, 
fired a shot, and then told his two children that Santa Claws 
had committed suicide." 

Then, of course, there is the one about the Glasgowleiter 
who emigrated to New York and was sitting on a pier in 
Jersey City when a diver came to the surface, removed his 
headgear, and lit a cigarette. "Hoot, mon," said the Scot, 
"why did no one tell me about this? I'd have walked over 
ma self." 



MAY, 1952 


Quarterly Magazine by the Students of Armstrong College 
Savannah, Ga. 

Volume 5 


Number 2 



R. L. Dolgoff 

Eleanor V. Goldberg 


.Molly Barnhardt 


.lean liolen 
.lark Golden 
Barbara Lawing 
Bill Wilson 

Betty Burrisa 
Debra Swart/. 


Sue Cunningham 
Juan Hughes 


.lack Canty 
Eleanor Goldberg 
Bill Wilson 

Betl y Johnson 
Jackie Taylor 




KNOW ME AS IAM . . . . 3 











MERCURY would 
.lack Porter, Miss Eleanor 
judging our recent literary 

like to acknowledge our appreciation to Mr. 

Doyle and Miss Dorothy Thompson for their 





By Mel Peacock 

Hartwig peered through the glass door, pushed it open, 
and shuffled into the bus station. Physically he was tired, but 
mentally he felt uplifted, as anyone might feel who has had 
to tussle with a baffling, emotional problem, to find a solution, 
and to make a momentous decision. Many of us faced with a 
domestic problem that defies solution, simply worry along and 
doing nothing. It is a common frustrating experience. But 
James Hartwig was made of sterner stuff. His presence in 
the station was proof that he had arrived at a point of decision 
which demanded positive action. 

"Women," he muttered. Fellow travelers, had they lis- 
tened, might have detected the scorn, the rebellion, the resent- 
ment and the sardonic overtones of self-pity which some 
males are wont to exhibit after experiencing feminine disil- 

He sidled over to an empty seat to collect his thoughts 
and to ponder his next move. Pushing 1 a small bundle of 
wordlv possessions under the seat, he leaned back and con- 
templated the prospect before him. 

How different todav would be! No more being - pushed 

around that was all over and done with. No one could say he 

hadn't tried to find a less drastic way out of the rut he hated 
so much. He had tried to be friendly and cooperative, lapsing 
only rarely into helpless anger. When his well-intentioned sug- 
gestions or remonstrations were habitualy ignored, he felt 
helpless and beaten. His inability to change conditions had 
fanned and tormented his tercile imagination into grotesque 
convictions, 'ine illusion of people's contempt lived with him 
constantly, tne calloused contempt of the strong for the weak. 

He had groped in his pocket for the money yes, it was 

all there. Not one penny nad been left benmd, the savings of 
a lifetime. Yet, curiously, money bothered him not at all. 
Suddenly he wondered when "she" would discover that he 
had withdrawn every cent of his capital and had cut loose 
from all of them. 

It wasn't that he consciously wanted to hurt anyone, but 
he knew now that the time had come to make a clean break 
with the past away from Chicago start life anew not 

just any new place, but in, say, Missouri. No one would dream of 
looking for him in Missouri. After all, people may be from 
Missouri, but who in the world ever goes to Missouri ? 

So, this was it; escape was imminent, and that was all 

that mattered out of the rut at last. And when he . 

"Excuse me, but is this seat taken?" 

His reverie disturbed, Hartwig turned to look at the 
woman preparing to occupy the empty seat next to him. He 
shook his head in silent negative reply. She appeared pre- 
disposed to be friendly, and Hartwig sensed that he was to 
be dragged into an unwelcome conversation. "Women," he 

She leaned toward him, placed a hand on his knee, and 
inquired, "Aren't you the James Hartwig that lives out 
Cicero way?" 

He nodded again, this time affirmatively. 

"Fancy that," she gushed, "finding you here like this. 
I'm Jane Conway. Where are you going, may I ask-" 

"Missouri," answered the other shortly, with growing 
distaste for her persistent interrogation. 

Jane Conway came to the point at once. "Sorry, Jimmy, 
but I've got to take you home now. You mama has been very 
worried by your disappearance. You see, sonny a six-year-old 
boy with only ninety-four cents from his savings bank will 
hardly get as far as Missouri. Why did you run away?" 

An atomic bomb has been known to cause less desolation. 

"Well, I was just getting tired of doing the same thing 
everyday," he explained, "getting up early to go to school. 
They just don't understand,.. my mother, my teacher ". 

Resolutely he grasped the friendly outstretched hand of 
policewoman Jane Conway and, with just the hint of a sigh, 
marched bravely back into his little personal rut. 

"Women," he muttered. 

By Betty Burriss 

The world shall never know me as I am; 

They see alone 

The laughter and the smiles ; 

Shall see the tranquil brow, but not the heart; 

Shall see the greed, but not the thirst; 

The masked reserve, but not the warmth ; 

The laughter, not the weeping soul; 

The toast of ages, not the inner man. 

But you who know me, me alone, 

But you who care if smiles cost a tear 

Or break a twisted heartstring in their bitterness; 

Shall know me as I am; 

The fear and loneliness 

That shades a golden day as darkest night, 

Or stills ambition with a melancholy sigh ; 

The selfishness; the hunger; the uncertainty; 

The sensitiveness as of a wounded bird, 

Whose fainting heart still flutters warmth and life 

In the panting fevered breast. Today 

I speak to you ; if you can hear my voice 

Within these pinetrees' sighs, or ocean's careless hush 

Of time, you understand my heart. To you 

Alone I speak. With you alone my words 

Shall bide, and live, and die. 

When you have gone, then words, as I, shall be 

No more. 


Duncan R. King 

The cool quiet of the bar pleased .Mason. Seating himself 
on the red leather bar stool, his eye took in the neat blonde 
in the green coat suit at his left and passed on to the bar- 
tender. Mason drank whiskey for its taste; he liked it straight 
and it slammed into his stomach like a bullet. He seldom used 
a chaser; there was no point in paying eighty cents to start 
a fire and then put it out. Mason was a rather good looking 
man endowed with that air of ease which only wealth instills. 
Not yet ready for a bracer, he was in that class with many men 
of thirty who were continually perturbed over that middle ;, 
spare tire but never quite up to the three months strenuous 
exercise necessary to remove it. 

He paid for his drink and glanced down at the blonde 
her escort was toying with her bracelet, his mouth brushed 
her ear. Mason smiled. The biological urge. He mused: Always 
it is the same. The big dipper begins in the west and slowly 
rotates across the sky. Stars follow their set patterns. The 
moon rises, bathing the world in its soft glow, enhancing 
front porch romances, influencing the tides and prodding the 
brains of wild-eyed lunatics in mental institutions. Always the 
earth hurtles along in its orbit unmindful of we mere mortals 
hugging tightly to its back as it screams down heaven's path- 
way. A billion, billion, fighting, struggling, procreating human 
beings riding an immense street car to where'.' 

He moved his glass making three interlocking rings on 
the bar and thought of tin Ballentine ads. He had grown 
weary of the party and walked out. People were tunny you 
couldn't do without them yet sometimes you were not so 
sure. His mind ran over the events of an hour before the 
immaculate dress the tanned men just off vacation men 
white from years of indoor office routine men's men and 
the usual assortment of carpet knights. He could almost hi 
big Author Saunders now. "It was on the ninth hole; just off 
the green rather a difficult proposition you know, but 1 
slammed thai ball to within three inches of t lie cup oil the 
next shot !" 

He had moved on then and that attractive Mrs. Fielding 
had come Up and asked him about his Canadian trip the 
summer before. And women, beautiful women who moved with 
a grace and poise which reflected their complete adjustment 
and acceptance of their position as the nucleus of their social 

circle. They were the honey of the hive; the male bees buzz- 
ing about them, lighting their cigarettes, ordering their 
drinks, wanting them, were definitely very desirable. Mason 
was tired of hosts who greeted all guests with the inevitable 
"Ginger-Ale or Soda ?" 

He was the son of a wealthy eastern manufacturer and 
he had met Marcia Marlow when she played the theater in 
New York. Thei-e had followed weeks of mad courtship and then 
one night they had awakened the magistrate in a small out- 
lying town and were married. Marcia had gone with him to 
their upstate model farm owned by his family. He remem- 
bered now, how utterly happy she had seemed. 

When she had returned to the west coast to fulfill her 
contract with Paramount, he had of course accompanied her. 
Magazine photographers had snapped their fill of them. Marcia 

and Johnnv at breakfast Marcia and Johnny washing their 

spaniel, lolling bv their pool teen-agers conjured up all sorts 

of romantic visions. 

With her return to Hollywood something had happened 
to their marriage. As Marcia became wrapped up in her work 
their relationship became more and more strained. She thought 
only of her career and each time Mason suggested hiding away 
for a few months to be together there had been another argu- 

During the last few months there had been one quarrel 
after another and he supposed tonight meant the end of 
everything His mind went back to scene a few hours before. 
He had sat on the edge of the bed in their room at the 
Statler Hotel while Marcia finished dressing. Her head was 
envelooed in the folds of an expensive black evening dress and 
she petulantly shook her hips and shoulders as its folds coiled 
down with a resilent swish around her ankles. She gave her 
body a voluptuous flounce. Her hands ran over her hips smooth- 
ing the black sheen of her gown. Marcia smiled contentedly 
and examined her nails, they were a vivid scarlet, "Illicit Pas- 
sion," the saleslady in the department store had said. She 
flicked a speck of powder off her shoulder and turned to Mason. 

Her eyes were hard now and her voice was cold. "My 
studio won't stand for a divorce or I'd send you back to your 

damn farm back to your alfalfa and lespedecia. Golly, you 

couldn't be more clumsy with a tractor than you've been with 
me. You don't know anybody out here and you don't seem to 
care. We drink too much ! Well, get yourself some little Maud 
Muller to have your babies, to cook your meals and mend your 

underwear! There's more fun sitting on the front porch on a 
warm summer night than going to one of my parties! Well, go 
home and rock till 1992! I won't miss you!" 

Her press agent Phil Brandon had met them in the lobby. 
Phil was puffing the usual black cigar and Marcia talked 
excitedly of contracts and percentages during the cab ridge to 
the Went h worth's party. Tic had gotten just tight enough not 
to care any longer and had walked out 

The sudden scrape of a chair pushed violently back startled 
Mason from his reverie as the strident voice of a young man in 
a striped seersucker suit carried over to him. There were three 
there at the table The Girl, impeccable in her tan sport 
clothes sat coyly as the men glared at one another. "I've passed 
you often on the street and received scarcely more than a 
brief nod: do you think I'm stiroid enough not to realize that 
you're making a play for my girl with your confounded. Harry, 
old bov, what a pleasant surprise! Harry old boy, Hell! Paula 
and I were doine very nicelv before you came in and we'd like 
to keep things that wav." Thev were standing now and George 
the head waiter, was there, his fWid face oven more flushed 
as he strived to restore peace. The newcomer left the group. 
George dabbed his brow with his handkerchief and went 
toward the kitchen to check the waiters. 

Mason drank up and walked toward the door. He nulled 
the lone chrome bar and when it would not budsre. looked 
down iratelv and saw the word "PUSH." He opened the door 
and stepped through. Outside the night was hot and humid. 


By Sue Cunningam 

It is spring DOW. 1 am sit ling on the window seat, looking 
out at the garden and thinking of other springs _ happier 
springs when we were together. But now you are gone. 

Spring is a time of awakening but no1 forme. My soul 

sleeps deep within me. waiting for your return. They say you 
will not return but I don't listen to them. I know that you 
will come back to me sometime, somewhere. And I shall be 

Happiness will be OUTS once more. Then we shall know 
the joy and meaning of life when it is spring, and the Easter 
lilies are in bloom again. 


By John Canty 

A gray world opened before his eyes. A heavy wind blew 
the rain in his eyes, and smudged his greyish sack suit with 
a series of star-shaped blots which combined to make his suit 
a soggy mass of wool and gabardine. The day before, he had 
kissed his sweetheart good-bye and told his mother not to 

worry as if she would take that advice. He had received 

word from the "chief" last week that there was to be a 
meeting of the three leading figures of the Communist Party 
on Thursday in Suite 8305 of the Empire State Building. How 
he wished he had never joined the FBI, he thought, as he 
felt himself being taken out onto the loft of the eighty-sixth 
floor among the girders supporting the temporary structure 
which had been erected to repair the damage done when the 
F-84-F fighter had "winged" the building. The crash had 
killed the pilot instantly (searchers had still failed to locate 
all the pieces of his body) , and wrecked the three floors directly 
beneath the observation platform. 

And now they were going to do away with him, these 
Communists for not only had he discovered their owner- 
ship of the formula for the new hydrogen bomb which the 
United States had recently perfected, and transmitted it to 
headquarters in Washington (substituting a false document in 
its place for return to Russia) , but he had tried that very day 
to wrest from them by force the blueprints of the new super 
atom-bomb which had been smuggled out of Russia last month 
by Boleslav Ivanov, the young Russian physicist, who had 
slipped through the Iron Curtain and crossed the ocean with 
his secret, only to be apprehended in New York by the men 
of the MVD. Ivanov had met the same fate that now awaited 
him ; for he too had crashed to his death from the outstretched 
girders that touched the sky and stared out into the mists of 
lower Manhattan. And there was no one to save him any more 
than poor Ivanov; for the observation tower, with its soda 

fountain, barkin<? guides, and pretty waitresses and of all 

things, he thouo-ht, armed guards to foil suicides was closed 

for repairs, and the upper stories were deserted. 

He wondered how his family would accept the news of 
his death ; of his sweetheart's plans for the future, now that 
he was gone ; whether the Cold War would ever develop into the 
Shootmpf O^e; who would get the money he had earned in 
his years of service to the Government; how much good his 

sacrifice would really do the country and its people, and how- 
much it would be appreciated by them. A sudden spasm of 
terror overwhelmed him as he suddenly remembered where 
he was and why he was there, and the thought of the Soviet 
scientist's body shattered on the pavement sickened him. . 

"Come on," said the leader of the group, as they carried 
him onto the roof, "over the south side." 

He could now feel himself struggling for breath as the 
rush of the fifty-mile an hour wind choked him. He could 
almost have been on the bridge of the DE in the North Atlan- 
tic, wallowing in the trough of a wave instead of dangling 
in yawning space a quarter of a mile high. How he wished 
again that he had never had to climb the four flights of stairs 
from the seventy-ninth floor to the unused office above (all 
office space between that floor and the observation deck was 
unoccupied, and had been since the erection of the skyscraper 
in 1932, he mused), and although the office he had just been 
moved from was spared, it too had been badly shaken, and the 
plaster on the walls and ceiling was loose. He marveled at the 
ingenuity of the Red agents, and wondered where they had 
secured a pass key to open the empty office. Then he almost 
laughed at the grisly parallel between the hero of "I Was A 
Communist Spy For the FBI" and himself, but sobered quickly 
at the realization that there were no friends to save him, nor 
policeman to arrest his enemies who were about to take his life. 

The three burly gorillas who had securely pinoned his 
arms by his side and tied his feet together now carried his inert 
form to the south face of the platform. A struggle followed as 
he assayed to release himself from his captors. A mighty heave 
and he was over the side. A blast of wind hurled his body 
about a quarter the length of the chest-high wall, and slightly 
downward and inward, snagging a piece of the rope with which 
he was fastened on the marquee just beneath the parapet. 
Conscious of the freak opportunity thrown in his path, he 
struggled relentlessly to free himself as the piece of rope 
nearest his left hand came slightly undone. But before many 
more seconds had elapsed, another of the goons who were 
watching to observe his fall, saw his predicament, and ran 
over to where he was struggling for life; and being unable 
to reach him with his hands, took a large revolver from his 
inside coat pocket, swiftly tied it to an extra length of the rope 
used to tie the agent, and began swinging the gun against the 
clinging hands. The efforts to dislodge him only spurred their 
would-be victim on to greater activity, for the now strained 
fingers of the figure below, loosened the revolver from the 


rope and flung it furiously with an oath upon the hand of the 
victim. The revolver clattered harmlessly out in mid-air. The 
hand, numbed by the force of the blow, relaxed limply as the 
body fell into space. 

One-two-three-four he thought, as he felt himself turn- 
ing over and over in the vacuum. All the events of his short 
life flashed vividly across his mind: early memories of home 

and family his first days at school his Eagle Scout badge 

being pinned on him by his mother cadet colonel in the High 

School ROTC the time he won the State football award the 

night of the Senior Prom with the girl he was going to marry 

the long pull through the State U. on the partial scholarship he 

had earned post-graduate work in nuclear physics at Leipzig 

the Navy years promotion to Commander after the Tinian 

action his mixed emotions of adventure and anxiety as he 

received his orders, seven months before, for secret work with 

the FBI on Assignment RH special training at the Academy 

in Washington. 

Again he experienced a feeling of mirthful abandon as he 
recalled the "block-buster" he had made in the Chemistry lab, 
and the angry face of the professor glaring at him amid the 
smoke and the wreckage of the test-tubes and retorts and the 
laughter of the other students, followed by another feeling of 
revulsion as he thought of the looped piece of Ivanov's kidney 
found under a parked automobile two blocks away, and a 
swift glance at the baroque roof of a three-quarter century 
old department store signalled the conclusion of his descent. 
The clanging of a fire-engine bell shocked his nervous system 
as he blacked out in a mass of whirling lights and shouting 1 
voices. In the cemetery, under the funeral canopy, a small 
group of silent people stood around the silver coffin as it slowlv 
descended into the earth. He felt a light touch on his head, 
followed by nothingness. 

"Goddam that alarm clock!" he shouted, 

as he jumped a figurative ten feet out of the bed, "I'll be late 
for the 8:30 class if I don't make it snappy!" 


Fate, you awful scheming thing, 
Why work you in awing way? 
Let me rest, and hear the cling, 
Of the church bell in this day. 
Go away to distant shore, 
And they'll be happier with you no more. 
By: E. G. Paetzel. 



By Mel Peacock 

Conductor Richard Czerwanky, erect and dignified on 
the orchestra padium, closed his score, tapped his baton brisk- 
ly on the music desk, and gazed on the assembled musicians. 

"Thank you, men. for an inspiring rehearsal," he began. 

"As you are aware. I seldom allow myself the pleasure of com- 
menting on the quality of this group's work. My pride in 
your performance, however, is a matter of record. No orch- 
estra of comparable size or instrumentation has worked to- 
gether as long and harmoniously as this one." 

"Eight years in solo flute chair", whispered a woodwind 
to his neighbor. 

"Eleven years on euphonium." boasted a brass. 

"It is true", continued the urbane Czerwanky, "that we 
have had to work under grave musical handicaps. Chief of 
these was the departure of our flugelhorn player, Carl Men- 
edlssohn. I need not tell you of the difficulties involved in a 
replacement. Flugelhorn players in this scountrv, of concert 
caliber, can be counted on the fingers of one hand. Our small 
democratic organization can scarcelv hope to compete with 
Stokowski in Philadelphia or Reiner in New York. Moreover 
because of rigid budget limitations and travel restrictions, wf 
have had to content ourselves with modest local acclaim. 

"But tonight", exulted Czerwanky. "I know that you wil 1 
share with me the pleasure I feel in announcing the return of 
our old flugelhorn virtuoso. Carl Mendelssohn. Once 1 airain, 
our little symphony will be a well-rounded musical unit." 

"Carl Mendelssohn back again? Good old Mendel!" ex- 
claimed a sarrusaphone to tympani. 

"Why, I heard that he had joined Becker at the Chicago 
Civic", interrupted a contra-bassoon. 

"With Mendel back again. I bet we tackle Weber's 'Con- 
certstuck' ", gloated a firsl violin. 

The conductor tapped for quiet, cleared his throat, and 
went on. "I realize that all of you were sorry to see Mendels- 
sohn leave his post here. When we could no longer hold him. 
he was, by exceedingly good fortune, engaged for the current 


season at the Chicago Civic under Sir Thomas Becker. Our 
loss was their gain". 

"Under this musical calamity to our organization, how- 
ever, has a happy sequel. I will pass lightly over the extra- 
neous details of Mendelssohn's downfall at the Chicago Civic." 
Czerwanky coughed discreetly, then concluded, "It seems that 
a Chicago musical instrument dealer falsely accused Carl of 
stealing a B-flat flugelhorn. As a four-time loser, Number 
406-823 will occupy the flugelhorn chair permanently. Yes, 
men, there's good news tonight. The Stateville, Illinois, Prison 
Orchestra is once again up to full strength." 

NEWS ITEM: (clipped to original copy by author). 

(AP) — There's a band here which is short clarinet players, but 
no rush is expected to fill the jobs. 

Warden Oscar Nygaard says the North Dakota peniten- 
tiary band has about 25 members now. The boys are showing 
much improvement lately, but the clarinet section is weak 
and needs more personnel. 


Forthwith, the devil shall grab his soul, 

And turn the wrath of hell upon him. 

There, in turn, he shall join the fold, 

Of thos Godless people, who would not sing with them, 

(They, the people, singing God's hymn). 

What is God's hymn, you may ask? 

Where will I find it? Is it such a task? 

Does it exist in an earthly form? 

Or is it something just to scorn? 

To this my friend, I cannot answer, 

With all my knowledge and worldly know, 

For I; I am an alcoholic. 

By: E. G. Paetzel. 

By Jean Bolen 

January l<>. L952 was a day in my life that 1 shall never 
forget. On this momentous date, I received "Harry", I was 

so excited ! My lab fee $3.50 covered him. Yes, you're right. 

Harry is my experimental frog. 

"Harry" is a very different kind of frog. He's not of 
the green, six inches long variety. NO, INDEED! He is 
about twelve inches long, six inches wide, and two inches 
thick. FORMALDEHYDRATED is the best word I know that 
completely describes him. 

"Harry" has gray eyes that are completely covered by his 
lids. He must have been a lazy so-and-so when he was alive 
and jumping. His skin is very wrinkled signifyinf that he 
must be at least a hundred and ten years old. "Harry" is 
bowlegged and would look SIMPLY frightful in a bathing suit. 
HUMPBACK could be his nick name. Web feet, hands with 
four fingers each, and an olive complexion sum up his odd 
characteristics — to total — one dead frog. 

On the first day I received him, I couldn't bear even to 
touch him. On this day. one biology student named .lean Bolen 
left the lab very sick. It was on this day that I named him. 
How did I get such a name for a poor innocent frog? He is 
named after a very dear friend, who, by the way, doesn't re- 
semble a frog. 

When I first examined "Harry's" mouth, I found that 
he has teeth GALORE. The study of his throat and mouth 
were my first assignments. After studying these, and all 
other parts of his outer extremity, the big day arrived. Disec- 
tion began! Down the stomach, across the chest, across his 
ishium tuberosity — (bottom). 

Tediously I laid back his flesh, and I carefully took a look 
at "Harry's" well. "Harry"! He wasn't "Harry" after all. 
but "Harriet". Mr. McCrav carefully held her for me while 
I cut out her WOMANLY WILES. We won't go any further 
into that! During this operation I had my eyes closed, and 
thus had Mr. Elmo slightly worried. He counted his fingers 
yep, all ten were still there. lie DIDN'T trust me. All during 
tin's time, Mr. Man (Bill Allgood) stood silently by — in case 
nt' emergency, (a missing finger or a passed-out-Jean.) 

I didn't tell you, I took his, I mean her, picture. This 


event occurred on the day before disection began. "Harriet" 
smiled very sweetly and quite a*s vain as any woman would. 

Every day since then until the end of the winter quarter, 

I have been studying the various parts of her anatomy veins, 

arteries, muscles, organs, etc. While sawing through the 
breastplate, I had quite a time. "Harriet" has a very hard 
head, and hard bones. Arthur, the ex-surgeon, came to my 
aid. "I'll help," said he. He helped alright. He helped make 
a bigger mess than I had made. When we, at long last, arrived 
at the brain, guess what we found ? The brain had been beaten 
to a pulp. This was my last job on "Harriet". Only a poor, 
bedraggled, f alling-apart frog was left ! You would never have 
recognized the handsome "Harry" I began with. The only 
thing that could be done now would be to fix an appetizing dish 
of stew frog. (Ugg!) 

This isn't a story, only an essay of an experience which I'll 
remember forever. Biology 15 isn't easy. You can't find 
what you're looking for. But, it's fun, isn't it? 


I long to seek the distant hope of space 
And fly with winds, and do a thousand things 
That love and hope can do; 
Until the sunlight turns to glory 
Silver wings. 

I long to reach the rainbow and the dawn 
And dip our silver wings to touch the dew 
And spring's first hidden flower; 
Long to find some hidden garden 
Where dreams used to grow. 

To fling along time's ageless flights 
As winds an autumn leaf my fling, 
And here to immortality; 
Until the sunlight is reflected 
From our silver wings. 

To find the purple of the twilight-time 
When gentle things like flowers, fold, 
And starlight guides our silver wings; 
Until the Night is changed to Morning, 
And our silver wings to gold. 

Betty Burriss 



By Bill Warnell 

Tommy Bartlett shaded his eyes from the bright noonday sun. 
He was hungry and a little lonesome. The warm salt-marsh 
air smell served only to sharpen his appetite. As seven-year 
olds often do, he was washing to had finished his breakfast, 
like Mommy told him to. It seemed a hundred years since 
he had eaten, and he'd been sitting here on the hot, rough 
planks of the floating dock at least ninety of the hundred years. 
Listlessly he splashed his bare feet in the tepid salt watej- and 
squinted at the sun's reflection on the river. No sign of a boat 
either way. When Mommy and Mr. Kelly left in the little 
white sailboat, they had promised to return in a little while, 
at least in plenty of time for lunch. The little boy sighed 
resignedly and closed his eyes against the hot glare. 

After a few minutes of day-dreaming, Tommy opened bis 
eyes and searched the length of the river, and then looked 
again. He could just see the limp sail coming into view above 
the trees on the bluff downstream, and could hear the creaking 
of the oar-locks faintly on the still air. There was no wind at 
all, only the oppressive heat : and the tide was ebbing, too. He 
stood up and shouted, but the boat was too far away ; so he 
sat down again to wait, faintly relieved. It would still take 
them a good while to row upstream to the dock, even as strong 
as Mr. Kelly was. Tommy liked Mr. Kelly very much. In 
Mr. Kelly's house were all sorts of treasures, war trophes, 
and even weight-lifting equipment. Once he had given Tommy 
a real Marine pocket-knife, but Daddy had made him give it 
back. At the time. Tommy was very angry with his father, 
especially when he called .Mr. Kelly a no-good loafer. Mr. Kelly 
was a sort of Hopalong Cassidy and Cod to Tommy. His 
mother liked Mr. Kelly too. he knew. If she didn't, then thej 
WOUldn'1 lie on this picnic with him. She always acted strange- 
ly around Mr. Kelly, fluffing her hair, straightening her dress. 
and laughing and smiling a lot. Hut she never said anything 
good about Mr. Kelly when Daddy was talking about him. She 
rarely mentioned him at home, and had told Tommy he must 
not tell Daddy about the picnic. It was their secret. 

Now Tommy could see the two in the sailboat clearly. Mr. 
Kelly's broad back was gleaming with perspiral ion as he rowed. 

Mommy was in the back, steering. Tommy waved and re- 
turned his salute. Mr. Kellv nodded to him over his shoulder, 
man-to-man style, and said something to Mommy in a low 

1 1 

voice Tommy could not hear. Her high, clear laugh cut the 
hot, humid air like a hot knife cutting butter. 

Tommy could not suppress a smile, looking at the boat, and 
the lunch-box in the bottom of the boat was not altogether 
the cause of his happiness. Before the boat reached the dock, 
though, Tommy had curved his lips downward into a sulky 
pout. He even managed a watery expression around the eyes. 
After all, he mustn't let them make him suffer and think they 
could find him eager to greet them. Wordlessly, he grabbed 
the rope Mr. Kelly threw him, and tied it to a bollard. 

After lunch, Tommy was pacified. Mr. Kelly's irre- 
pressible high spirts, and his mother's infectious laughter had 
worked their magic while they ate. He felt very secure and 
sure the world was a good place to be in. They passed the rest 
of the afternoon playing ball and swimming. It was a wonder- 
ful afternoon, except towards the last, when Tommy noticed 
his mother was becoming moody and nervous. Mr. Kelly knew 
something was wrong too, so he started gathering up the 
things to go. Tommy helped carry the equipment to Mr. 
Kelly's car. 

The short drive home was depressing in contrast with 
the pleasant afternoon. Mommy said nothing and Mr. Kelly 
was strangely quiet, too. He spoke to Tommy only once during 
the drive, then only to point out a rabbit in the road. When 
they arrived at Tommy's house, Mr. Kelly got out, came around 
the car, and opened the door for Mommy. Then Tommy 
clambered out and looked expectantly at the two adults. Mr. 
Kelly looked from Tommy to his mother and back to Tommy. 

"Tommy", he said, "remember this is our secret now. We 
mustn't ever tell anyone about the picnic or boat ride (he 
glanced quicklv at Tommy's mother), especially to Daddy. 

Tommy nodded silently. 

"Tell you what. To make it a real deal I'll give you that 
Marine pocket-knife. You know the one?" 

Again Tommy nodded. 

"I have it iwth me now," said Mr. Kelly. "Take it to seal 
our pact of secrecy." 

Tommv looked questioninglv at his mother, and she 
nodded "Yes." 

Tommy watched the dust cloud forming in the car's wake, 
and then turned to Mommy. She smiled at him uncertainly. 
He slid his hand into hers, the other tightly clasping the knife 
in his pocket. 


By Sue Cunningham 

The literal meaning of the subject is obvious each time 

a new day is horn, a different pattern is formed, and new 
situations arise which will never be duplicated again. 

In our generation (and it is especially true of the present 
day), we are learning the old saying, "Live for today, for 
tomorrow never comes.'* 

That may well be true, for vital things, such as breath. I 
beating of our hearts, and time, come our at a time. We are 
not alive yesterday, nor are we living tomorrow. We are alive 
today "this day" we live, breathe, work, sorrow and rejoice 
on "this day," which is the only time we have. Yesterday is 
gone forever (except in the realms of memory, where it may 
live on, beautiful and untouched by presenl cares). And to- 
morrow nevei - comes (excepl in the dream world of hope and 
the magic word FUTURE). 

That is my interpretation of "(live us this day our daily 
bread." No matter how heavy our burden may be. how d( 
our disappointments may be, and how worried we are, we 
cannot bear it all at the same time. We cannot receive suf- 
ficient strength for all of it on one day. God will give us all 
the strength and wisdom we need to live "this day." "This 
day" is all that matters. 

Maybe T am wrong and if T am— 1 shall find it out — and 
change perhaps— but T do not live each day separately. 

Today affects what I shall do tomorrow — and yesterday 
affected what I did today. Each day is a new experience, and 

each second is new in this world. The time 1 am spending 

writing this is passing into eternity. When I stop and think 

about it. I eel "chills inside*", and I feel very small and in- 
significant, and 1 wonder if I shall ever prove myself worthy. 

I cannot, unless 1 profit from yesterday's mistakes and today, 
lay the foundations for a better tomorrow. 

Days may change, the crises may arise, for we live in 
an ever changing '"rid. Bui those items are small — minor 
details in relationship to whal they mean. For to me. The 
Kaleidscope of Days is Life. My life— and the lives of my 
family, my friends, and people all over the earth, because they 
affeel me. and are a pari of my world— but primarily— My 



By Jennie Lynn 

Now that it's Spring quarter when the sophomores are 
looking - forward, with joy or regret, to commencement and 
leaving school, some of us for good (or bad), won't you reverse 
your thoughts and reminisce with me over what truly has 
been and will be one of the best years of our lives? 

I have memories of but one year at Armstrong. After 
high school graduation I felt I would have withered to a dried 
bean if I had to stay in Savannah and go to, school. With all 
my talking and sighing, groaning and running Armstrong 
into the ground, Dad's persuasive attempts to keep me here 
were in vain. A stubborn mind is a difficult thing to change 
(unless you're a Lincoln Steffens) and I succeeded in getting 
away to a school that was "really a school" because it was 
not at home. 

This September Fate (or what have you) asked me why 
not give Armstrong a try; I reluctantly submitted to its call, 
not knowing whether to go back to my "real" college or stay 
here, save money, not be homesick, and see if Armstrong 
would live up to my friends' enthusiasm over her. Besides 
I thought it would be a cinch, another High School. 

Much to my surprise Armstrong was richer in its rewards 
than I had dreamed: it was harder and more profitable in 
studies, more fun socially, and just plain more all round won- 
derful. Remember that eighteenth of September when you 
saw all your friends up in the lobby running across the hall 
with broad smiles and So Glad To See Yous ? The thankfully 
long line of registering gave all time to catch up on who had 
gotten a promise or a ring over the vacation or to ask around 
about who was taking what, why on earth, and if so who 
was the best egg about homework. Then settling down in 
front of Mr. Beecher's (or is it Freddy's) smile and patience 
to tell him your schedule. Of course it turned out he was 
smiling only so he could more easily persuade you to work in 
Chemistry, Math, or Political Science in those blank white 
free period spaces. , 

Between warnings of "You'll be sorry" and encourage- 
ments of "You'll love his course", you started to classes. They 
weren't really bad, some of them were even interesting, for 
instance the days Mr. Killorin didn't talk too far above your 
head about what 'justice' really meant. But then after you 


thought you had struck upon a brilliant answer, \ ou were 
confronted with "Why do you say that?"!! At the time it 
was painful thinking. Had you ever thought before you got 
into one of his or Mr. Murphy's classes? I know I certainly 
hadn't. What could have been more thought stimulating than 
Socrates' arguments for aristocracy crushing all your former 
opinions one day at 10:30, and Cleopatra and Anthony's trag- 
edy turning out not tragic at 1 :30 right before Ki equals 
(H+) (AC-). 


September, October, and November brought us back to 
school, back to work and in for many unforgettable days and 
nights of dancing, basketball games, assemblies, singing and 
acting silly, house parties, and Mr. Porter's hits. In Miss 
Doyle's room of espanola every morning we listened to enthus- 
iastic previews and reviews of attractions and events around 
school. If anything ever happened without her knowing it, 
it was a miracle, except that day we voted to dedicate our 
annual to her, who certainly deserved it. She announced, with 
laughs and sparkling eyes, the coming meetings, elections, 
dances, predicted their successfulness and eagerly put us "up 
to date" on her pet, the 'Geechee. Those of us who worked 
with her on it absorbed some of her energy while selling, 
rather pleading on bended knees, to advertisement buyers. 

Finally the 'Geechee was well on its way, with Mary Ann 
an able backbone, and it promised to be the best ever some- 
body kept saying (Miss P.-). Earl was far from deserting 
the Inkwell we found out, as heads were buried in the editions 
every week, reading the news and finding if Miss D.'s predic- 
tions were true. 

Thus, while some were working their fingers to ink stains, 
we sat lazily in class or bubbling over in the Dump. There was 
always some jazzy record going, along with ten dozen mouths. 
especially if you hadn't read Lucretius. .Ian is there rehears- 
ing for OUT OF THE FRYING PAN, while we laughed and 
listened over hot dogs and cups of coffee. Mary, Mary Ann, 
Gratz, and Joe's bridge game going on hour after hour. Did 
they ever make it to class? (What a question — I remember 
old Tannehill and Meyers in Mr. Beecher's history 25. Those 

two and Earl really showed us they were child prodigies.) 

And Mary did take time off from cards — those beautiful 
clothes she made Julie. What a Momma! How M. A. found 
time for Atlantic Mutual, Delta (hi. and the Dean's list, I'll 
never know. Perhaps your recollections are of waiting for 
Viola's cheese and hamburgers, hearing her ask for that — 


"Have you got a penny?" Maybe it's the wonderful surprise 
of running into one of the 117th, home for the week-end with 
marvelous, fabulous tales of the Smyrna gals, or is it nervously 
copying the Preliminary Exercises on Monday right before lab, 
then checking with Tina to be sure yours are right. I don't 
know what the boys have to look back on in their Sanctum 
Sanctorum the Blue Room How about it, fellows? No mat- 
ter how you spent your Dump Days they really were fun. We 
fussed over grades, and over boy friends, laughed at and 
wept with each other; in sort have many unforgettable times 
stored up inside. 

As November and December brought friends home from 
school, ball games, homecoming, we anticipated and enjoyed 
more happy hours. Everyone, with blue and white bells on, 
went to the SHS-BC Thanksgiving game and ended up at 
the Harvest Dance, feeling like Grandparents. But never say 
die. We were bright and shining, and johnny on the spot 
for Armstrong's basketball games! Such rip roaring crowds 
of enthusiasts ! But Lollie did draw quite many to the dances 
with her posters, decorations and verbal commercials. Home- 
coming turned out marvelously we politely and courageously 

faced that reception line, stammered probably the wrong in- 
troduction and had wonderful time dancing to Jewel Casey's 

And exams. We knew they would be stinkers : the teachers 
didn't disappoint us. We waited, unfailingly, until the night 
before each to study, if we didn't go out. The teachers know 

this the unmerciful beings they are, realizing the facts (as 

they were once in our shoes, believe it or not) they compli- 
ment our ego by putting before us tests like Mr. Kask's mile 
long sheet. We crammed all night keeping the eyes propped 
up with faithful Chase and Sanborn, then drooped into 105 
Jenkins the next morning to write down something from the 
jigsaw in the head. Of course exams are unfair, dictatorial, 

and downright not good, but tradition rules so we got through 

the motions. 

Holidays arrived Merry Christmas gave us Santa's gifts, 

more dances, more nights and barbeques at Harris', parties, 
then New Year's Eve. Once more the boys left for the service, 

or school and we went back, starting 1952. January marked 

the beginning of Dante, Milton, and the end of the sorority 
initiations. So we studied a little, continued going to class and 
escaped (?) to the beach for a house party. That week-end 
we really had our share of work, cooking supper for twelve 
yelling females (frying potatoes and serving buttered rolls 


in vain for Elsie and -Joyce), then combing the Island during 
a scavenger hunt for a dead cockroach, fuchsia sea weed, live 
shrimp, Moscow Mule glasses. Remember Winnie and Kay? 

In February we chose Barbara as sour beauty queen — 

wasn't she darling at the dance with Jack? She and all the 
rest of the court really added something special to the Valen- 
tine and cupids. We had a gay time at Eleanor's square dance, 
too. Miss Morris could call those dances and Beta Lambda 
was there raking in a little "easy money" (quote Mr. M.) off 
of their own friends, tempting them with cold drinks and 
homemade cookies. That was the night we watched .Mr. I Sell 
and Nick go to town at the ping-pong table. (They didn't play 
a bad game!) Mr. Bell and Miss Morris crave us plenty of 
entertainment during school hours, too. They'll make swim- 
mers and soft hall players oul of us yet! 

Before we knew it, exams were again staring us in the 
face. No time to even think, much less study. W epassed and 
failed in a daze and dived into nine shorl Spring holidays. Of 
course none of the other schools had the same vacation time, 
so we worked or what's worse, stayed around the house. 

straightened closets, painted rooms, ran errands, and Monday 

faced Mr. Kask again. 

Here it is the last quarter, the quarter you were going 
to have all your hard subjects behind you. The quarter your 
sister comes home from school and you seeher only over the 
supper table or the pages of Bulls ami Hears in Wall St reel. 
The quarter with hilarious entertainment from Glenda and 
Shirley, Earl and Tom. Maurice and Mr. Porter, Arthur, E. V.. 
Freddy, Jackie, Miriam, and the rest in the assembly on April 
L5. This quarter we find is just as full of happenings, just as 
promising a beginning for some like Deonne and Adele. just as 
difficult with poetry. Lite at Armstrong we find carries on 

as it did before: a cup overflowing with opportunities, good 

times, wonderful friends. We realize, if Only We pause to do 
so, that we'd give nothing lor this year of listening to Mr. 

Murphy's overwhelming lectures and questions, of rushing 

into typing to Mrs. Haines' pleas to } r et there on time of 
acting crazy in the Dump. Could we have had any more tun 

gathering around to hear about Miriam's week-end at Alabama, 
Peggy's adventures on the telephone, or looking at Mary Ann's 
gorgeous, huge ring'.' Life is what you make it. To me the 
faculty and students have made our Alma Mater unforgettable. 
have drunk of it's sources and have poured their lives and 
love into her. 

I know you share my feelings, else you aren't a part of 


^Quannah, (jeorqiq 

Armslroncj Colle^i 

Fall and Winter Quarters-1952-1953 

The Staff 

Editor Betty Burriss 

Assist. Editor Bill Fuhrman 

Business Editor Mary Frances Sullivan 

Business Committee Helen Youngblood 

Molly Barnhardt 
Harry DeLorme 

Art & Make-up Jim Moody 

Susannah Robertson 
Bill Wilson 
Jack Golden 
Fred Baldwin 
Jean Bolen 

Circulation Jim Moody 

Fred Baldwin 

Typists Kitty Browne 

Lola Gerbasi 

One cannot read through these pages without feeling 
the powerful influence of our present war on the hearts 
and minds of our students. But also present is a great 
striving, an excellent understanding of the present, amaz- 
ingly bound together with an optimistic hope for the future. 

We are a hopeful school. 

We have a Liberal Arts program that is easilv compared 
with the best of our nation's colleges, and facilities that 
insure our position as one of the most up-to-date junior 
colleges anywhere. 

Armstrong has a great future! 

The students of today are creating that future; so it is 
with the belief that you, our reader, will live agai n with us 
the great hope that is here a unity, that we present to you the 
magazine of Armstrong College. 

The staff wishes to express its appreciation to those 
faculty members, Mrs. Lubs and Mr. Jackson, who served 
as judges for our literary contest; to Mr. Killorin who 
aided in our preparation, and to Mr. Green, our capable 
faculty advisor, and to all those whose literary feelings are 
entered here. 

Our fondest wish is that here each will see his efforts 
well rewarded. 

The following is prize winning contribution in our recent 
contest. We extend our congratulations to the winner. 


Perfect happiness 

Found in the crimson dawn melting the cool thin air 

It's liquid vibrance dripping from lacy moss and playing 

in the tides. 
Perfect happiness evolved from the lanquid thickness of 

the noon air, 
Doodle bugs spinning in a sandy road and the rich smell of 

summer flowers, 
Hidden deep in tall grasses, 

Waving beneath a wide blue sky. 
Perfect happiness drawn from the warm freshness of the 

evening air, 
Permeated with cricket hums, 
And from bare feet sinking in the pleasant heaviness of 

a dim road, 
Stretching long and dusty into the glowing west, 
Stretching dim and far, 

Plunging into secretive night behind the evening star. 
T omorrows, 

Slip into yesterday-- 
The years drift by-- 
But somewhere, 

Spinning in a whirlpool of the past, 
One bit of perfect happiness survives, 
Lingering at the back of time in a memory of a 

summer's day. 

Laura Peeples 

I ain't seen him since back in forty-four. Him and me 
was buddies in the service. Seems like when we was to- 
gether we jest couldn't stay out of trouble. Always spoilin' 
for a fight or lookin fer a good time. The Sarge could lick 
any two men his size. 

Why, I recolleck on one occasion when we was on a de- 
tail to dump some explosives out in the bay. Two of them 
there smart-aleck stevedore fellers starts givin' us some 
lip. Well, the Sarge being a quick-tempered sorta fella 
naturally jumps on these guys. With the odds being two to 
one, what else can I do but help the Sarge? Like I said 
before, we kinda likes a little contest every now and then to 
sorta break the monotony. Fer some reason it seems like 
the MP's were out in full strength that day. Right away they 
grabs us and starts callin' us trouble-makers and all sorts 
of abusin' names. I kinda recall them tellin' us as to how 
there was bad feelin' between them 4F stevedore fellers and 
us servicemen and that they wanted to keep everything hunky- 
dory 'tween us and them so they would co-operate with us. 

Well, like I was sayin*. Them MP's done carted me and 
the Sarge off to the Wire Hotel fer what they called a little 
coolin'-off period. Naturally, the rest of the guys on the 
detail had to go on out on the ammo-barge. What happened 
after that we didn't find out too much about. Seems like 
them there fellers up in Washington got their own ideas about 
those things. The most we could get out of anybody was that 
one of the guys was probably lightin' a cigarette 'round some 
powder and - whoosh.' The whole works blows. T'aint 
nothin' but fate. Together me and the Sarge was the two 
luckiest humans what ever strode on God's green earth. 

That's why I can't understand it. I jest can't believe it's 
true. I even made a phone-call down there to get them to veri- 
fy if it was true. The whole time I knew him , three whole 
years, he never mentioned anything about likin' automobiles 
and speed. Musta' been somethin' he picked up when he was 
discharged. Well, to go on and proceed farther . The Sarge 
was makin' a right smart name for himself on the dirt tracks 
around the country. Seems like he kinda took a likin' to stock 
cars. If I know the Sarge, he either had to be the fastest or 
the craziest driver in the business. 

It happened two weeks ago on a Saturday down in Atlanta, 
Georgia. The Sarge was in the lead for a fat two-thousand 
dollar purse. They say somethin' musta' gone wrong with 
his steerin' mechanism, cause he was last seen fightin' the 
wheel. Well sir, his car went thru the guard-rail on the 
outside and turned over two times while it was still in the air. 
The poor ole fella passed on a'fore they got him to the 

Oh, fer you fella's what just walked up. The reason I 
been relatin' this here incident is to let you know, when your 
number's up you gotta go and not before. 

Henry Tuten 

Man is like a lampwick. He gets trimmed a lot of 
times before he gets the right flame. 


Seems like it was just yesterday when Red and I used 
to sit on the curb, watching the slow moving five o'clock 
traffic. Most of the time our conversation would finally 
get around to : "What'cha going to be Jim? I mean, when 
you grow up." •'Oh, I don't know; maybe a baseball play- 
er, or a policeman or some'un." Even then, Red knew. 
He would tell me: "Yes, Jim, I'm going to be an engineer; 
you know, the kind that builds things and all." I never real- 
ly believed him, but I'd always say: "That's find Red; 
you'll sure like that." But like I said, I didn't really be- 
lieve it. 

Then, when we started high school, Red seemed more 
serious than before. He looked for the right subjects, the 
ones he'd need at Tech. In fact, he talked me into taking 
a few. Of course, I didn't pass them, I had so much other 
stuff to do. Red even studied them, not too much, but more 
than I saw any reason for. Red had a few dates, but it sure 
was a hard job talking him into getting one. Lot's of times 
he would say he had to study for a test. Heck. I had dates 
every weekend. 

He kept on saying he was going to be an engineer, even 
wrote a couple of compositions on it in English. Still it 
didn't sound too good to me. Maybe, it just seemed like too 
much work. 

We both played a little basketball. Red always was a 
little better, but I didn't mind. I wanted to see him do 
something to have a little fun. 

Finally, when we graduated; both of us got jobs for the 
summer. It certainly was nice, making our own money. I 
didn't know how Red could say he didn't like his job. Of 
course, it had nothing to do with building bridges, but after 
all it wasn't much work. I tried to talk Red into staying 
home and getting a little cash, but he still wanted to be an 

During the summer Red got serious with an old class- 
mate. She was pretty nice, but never was in any of the 
sororities or anything. 

He left for Tech while I stayed to make some money. 

Then Red got married. It sure made me feel kinda 
funny, my old friend doing something like that. 

I didn't get to see him much anymore; he was really 
busy becoming an engineer, and I was busy trying to be a 
soldier. At least I'd be through with it (my turn in the 
Army) when Red finally got out of school. 

After I became a civilian and got back home to make 
more money, I heard from Red. He was 2nd Lt. H. W. 
Holland now. Red said he didn't mind. "At least I'm in 
the Engineering Corps, and this won't last forever." He 
told me he had named his little boy Jim. Sure made me 
feel good too. 

That was the last I heard until today. There it was 
in the "Evening Press". It didn't take much space. In 
fact, I almost missed it: "Korea: Missing in action, 
2nd Lt. H.W. Holland." 

Life sure is funny sometimes, huh? Anyway, maybe 
little Jim will have a chance to be that engineer. 

Landy New 

....AN OLD FRI£ND... 

. . . FKED STQKES . 



When, in the course of that which is called time 
I think of the ending of so long life, 
I find that my death is the end sublime 
And, in passing, I leave this worldly strife. 
This is the beginning and not the end 
Eternity was and shall always be; 
That which we know as Now is but a lend 
After that, a Now we shall never see. 
Time is just a river, endless and deep, 
Gorged with struggling life and rotting hulks 
That over its shallow, crude banks had leaped, 
But Death, the messenger, constantly lurks. 
That is not dead which eternal does lie 
And in strange aeons even death may die. 

James D. Moody 

Oh the comfort, the unexpressible 

Comfort of feeling safe with a 

Having neither to weigh thoughts, 
Nor measure words—but pouring 
Them all right out--just as they 
Chaff and grain together 
Certain that a faithful hand will 
take and sift them-- 
Keep what is worth keeping — 
and with the breath of kindness 
Blow the rest away. 


On People 

Since the actuaries give you only three score years and 
ten to perambulate around this globe, I would hate to take up 
all of your time tripping you on this assemblage of words. 
For that reason I shall keep my cogitations terse and, if 
successful, humorous. I have consulted three times already 
Mr. Webster's best seller, the dictionary, but out of respect 
to you, my faithful reader, I will remain in the element of 
my own vernacular. Besides, the print in my dictionary is 
hard on the eyes. 

Now that Webster is back on the shelf let's relax and, 
through the courtesy of our retina and its subsidiaries, take 
a look at some of those more advanced(?) of the vertebrates; 
yes people. 

If you dislike laughing at, or wondering about, some 
people (the author included) my advice is to leave this futile 
attempt of literary endeavor and proceed to a more enlighten 
article. However, since we all have to put up with one anothe 
during our insignificant little lifetime on this planet, we 
might as well laugh at ourselves instead of fight among our- 
selves. The preceding sentence is my sole excuse for 

I like people. Big ones and little ones, smart people and 
those that aren't so smart, good-looking people and also 
those that resemble me. Now what some wise fools don't 
realize is that from some fools that aren't so wise they are 
apt to learn something. All that needs to be done to 
illustrate this is to observe carefully some people. This 
summer as I was driving through the Shenandoah Valley of 


Virginia I passed many small shacks along the side of the 
road. The porches of most of them were decorated with the 
slumbering bodies of the inhabitants. I wondered at the time 
whether or not I had seen anyone as lazy or worthless as those 
quaint characters. As I think about it now I really believe 
they're a lot smarter than most of us. Where can you find 
a more classic example of relaxation? Don't think that all 
goldbricks are crazy. They will probably outlive all eager 
beavers by twenty years. 

Passing by these static proponents of old age, from time 
to time, are the more energetic examples of our population. 
These hustlers are few in number ( thank goodness) but accord- 
ing to them nothing would get done without their professional 
touch being added. Some of these people turn into executives, 
making a lot of money but unfortunately dying of stomach 
ulcers before they have a chance to spend it. 

Money is far from everything to some people. These good 
folk (mostly dominated by the female element) would rather 
draw a smile or acclaim from the world at large. For bait 
they usually display the most prominent set of choppers seen 
since the Pepsodent 'tooth-paste smile' faded in favor of 
Chlorophyll Chewing gum. Sure would seem nicer if they 
would smile with something other than a hardware display. 
Most of us, and I reluctantly include myself, don't really 
know people. All people are like books and I wish we all 
knew how to read. I won't get too serious because this start- 
ed out to be a satire on people; however I think I should at 
some future date write an apology for people. In order not to 
provoke the wrath of too many people I won't snicker at any 
more of us; but close with Alexander Pope's advice: "Words 
are like leaves; and where they most abound, much fruit of 
sense beneath is rarely found." 




The magnificence of Evening's sunset belonged 

to those 
Two, who had wandered from the paths 

of reality 
To a land beyond the thoughts of others. 
Alone, they spoke in the language of 

their eyes 
And the yearning in their hearts, 
Bringing an eternal promise of faith and trust 

to one another. 

But nature, jealous of the two mortals 
Over came them with the mists of the sea. 
Down into the darkness and the depths 

they went 
Embraced in a moment's struggle of 

their bodies for life, 
Their souls for release- 
And Death . . . 

Beyond that which we are able to 

These two who fled reality 
Have found eternal Peace in 

the arms of God, 

Robert Friedman 



It was a stormy night, when I walked upon the shore. 

The winds howled and whistled through the trees. These 
trees, bending low, beat upon the sand in the torrents of 
rain. The atmosphere of that night was ghostly and eerie. 
Flashes of lightning in the sky revealed to me the path to 

As I walked through the storm, I thought of you. I 
remembered our good times upon this beach, and knew that 
such times could be no more. 

You were dead. 
"Killed in action" 
"Buried at Sea" 

These words rang through my mind and heart, echoing 
again and again. My thoughts, jumbled as they were, were 
about you. Everywhere I turned — I could see you. 

Out in the waters you stood, beckoning me to follow 
you. Hesitating only a moment, I stepped into the rippling 
waves. The waters rushed at me, wild with fury. Higher 
and higher they came. One wave threw me down into the 
surging bubbles. I lost sight of you. Regaining my height, 
I found you. As a light-house on a stormy night leading 
and guiding ships — you led me. 

I called to you. Silence. 

I started to turn back. I could not. You compelled with 


magnetic power to follow. On I went ...... Emotions 

surging in my breast. Love for you held me to the course 
set for me. 

Suddenly —black waves engulfed me. Down I went, 

never to rise again. I had met you on that, stormy night. 

Together we lie in "the sepulchre in the sea." 

Jean Bolen 


Alone. Alone. 

I sit in the solitudes of the moonshades, 

Soul-hungering in the moonshade solitudes sit I. 

My heart-lifts beaten down in the wild wind-path - - - 

Oppressed, and scourged and beaten down are my heart- 

I fix my gaze on the eye -star, and the eye -star flings its 
dart upon me. 

I wonder why my soul in lost in wonder why I am, 

And why the eye -star mocks me, 

Why the wild wind beats down my heart-lifts; 

Why I am alone here in the moonshade solitudes. 

Why am I what I am, 

And, why am I anything? 

Am I not as wild as the wind? 

Why do I sit in the moonshade, while the eye-star mocks me 
while I ask what I am? 




A letter came for me the other day-- a letter from 
Monju, Korea. It was from a boy who had for six months 
been an infantry platoon leader , living in anxiety and 
filth in a bunker on the front lines; a boy whose division 
had just been displaced to a safe reserve position. Per- 
haps you have never heard of 'Monju', Korea--perhaps 
you care less, and just perhaps you will remember such a 
place exists after you hear what I have to say. 

I had received other letters telling of blood, guns, and 

raucous confusion of sleepless nights of waiting.... 

and of death. One was about lifting the body of a squad 
leader onto a stretcher after a mortar had hit his trench, 
later learning that he had died on the operating-table; and 
there was one letter about an old buddy who was also killed, 
but who had been 'lucky' because he was shot through the chest 
and never knew what hit him. But this letter was different-- 
Though it was addressed to me, I think it was written to 
us all; and it is one which you might help me answer: 
"I have a real house to live in now with an oil 

circulator stove. Can you believe it a three-room 

house with electric lights, windows, curtains and all*. The 
food is out of this world. They have a special way to fix the 
powered milk so that it really tastes like whole milk---I 
drank at least a gallon and a half today. 

"This will really amaze you. When I got here last 
night, the Lieutenant who had this job asked me to go with him 
to meet some people. We went to a big bunch of buildings, 

about three miles from my house, and inside an officers' 
club. It was the 11th Evacuation Hospital Club. There 
were thirty nurses there and they were all huddled around 
a big fire, singing. . .just like a house party*. I couldn't 


believe it. I wanted so to get right in the middle of all 
of it and help them out on "MacNamara's Band", but I 
was as shy as a timid little mouse... I hadn't had a bath 
in about two and a half weeks. 

"But there I was, sitting at a real bar, drinking cold 
beer out of a real glass and listening to real live American 
girls sing. I was really choked up and I almost started to 
cry. I just couldn't believe it. It was like a dream of some 
sort. I looked like some tough gangster to those people as 
they didn't even carry weapons in Wonju...I had my .45 at 
my right side and my trench knife on my left. 

"After a while the Lieut, must have put about three of 
them up to conning over and talking to me; and soon after 
I was right in there singing my lungs out. 

"I must come home soon. All that just plain cheerful- 
ness for a change really made me homesick and it made me 
stop cursing and being bitter for about three hours." 

Some time in the future, when we are all singing at 
home, on the boat, or at Tybee in the winter in old clothes 
around a fire, my mind will surely wander back to the 11th 
Evac. and to a swell bunch of doctors and nurses who made 
a guy fresh off the line, and who had spent the last four days 
at an assembly point rice paddy in the cold wet rain, feel 
warm and good and wanted... even though he hadn't had a 
bath in over two weeks." 

There it is--the letter! Simple, isn't it? And I must 


Should I say as many are saying: "Sure, soldier, we 
know what it's like. Sure, we appreciate all you're endur- 
ing for us over there. Why, I remember when we didn't 
have electricity or water for two days in one of those 
September hurricanes. We had to eat cold canned food 
and none of us could take a bath. We were sure glad when 
we got 'em back again. Oh, sure, fella, we appreciate how 
you feel." Or, "Don't worry, it's only a police action. 
You'll be rotated out soon and you'll forget." Or, "This 
one is nothing'. The last one was really bad." Sure, soldier, 
we know. 

Quite conceivably they do understand. Granted we've 
all had short periods of affliction and distress. G.I.'s 
today do only have a limited tour of duty to endure, and 
then they'll be 'home' again though it may be with a cane 
to tap their way through the new darkness--artificial 
limbs to replace the ones they lost, hooks where those 
good hands used to be, or perhaps they may arrive with 
flags for blankets. Granted this is supposed to be merely 
a police action and the last war was far more terrible; 
but death and disability are the same no matter in what 
type of war or in which one they were inflicted. But how 
many of us have actually suffered under such duress and 
have been without the barest socially accepted necessities, 
that such simple things as a house, a window, a glass could 
mean so much? How many of us have rendered obviously 
futile aid to the broken body of a friend? How many of us 
have known that at any moment we might die violently, or 
that any of vast numbers were striving to liquidate us and 
that we must react and kill accordingly? Or, how many 
of us have lived the barbarian's role to the extent that we 
felt awkward about our instruments of preservation in a 


natural social setting and, were overwhelmed to the point 
of tears when someone wanted to include us in so element- 
ary a thing as a singing group? 

Certainly some have experienced these things and do 
know, but they are few and their real apathy--though they 
give lip service to caring--is as inhuman as those who do 
not know and consequently do not care. 

So, what is left for me to say in reply?... not "we know"; 
for it would be saying that his letter represents to us past 
experiences... not "we understand"; that, too, would be in- 
adequate, for it would be to say we really care. I could not 
say we neither know, understand, nor care; for that would 
be to shatter all the illusions he has of us as sensitive people. 

There seems nothing left but that it is difficult for us to 
visualize these things, which in effect is only a kinder way 
of saying that the realities he has endured are too disturbing 
to seriously consider. We are saying therefore: "When 
you come 'home' do not expect us to appreciate such simple 
things or to understand your attitude because you do. In 
short, take us for our bigoted shallow selves--you will be 
in our environment--adjust yourself to it and us. Forget what 
you have known and the consequent appreciation of life it has 
given you; for it has no place here and we will not change." 

Whether or not we realize it, this is the real meaning of 
our words, and attitudes. 

How can I say these things? How could you, after read- 
ing the letter? And yet it must be answered. ..if not now, 
certainly in the future when he returns, full of the pseudo 
illusions of 'home' he has been creating in regard to us. We 


are his life, his future, and his hope. And yet the answer 
must be given. I hardly have the courage or the heart to 
give it... and, I wonder,... do you? 

Laura Peeples 



The hills rising in darkness, 

The mountains submitting their celestial peaks to the 

realms of blue-black. 
The heavy fullness of the moon, 
The round sphere of yellow-gold among clouds of 

dull red brick. 
The vastness of sky, depth-filled with glittering planets 

owned by all, possessed by one, 
Exchanged by lovers. 
One lone tree, its limbs lifted in search; monotonous 

lines criss-crossing 

Roots thickly embedded in coarse time-sands of earth. 
The grass beneath plodded by days of picnics and play-- 

Ash and trash: dead symbols of fun and livelihood 

One lone flame: a glow of destruction. 
"Keep our forests green" 

Ted Lymon 


Hollywood Conversation 
1st Child: "Have you a papa and a mama?" 
2nd Child: "I have three papas by my first mama and two 
mamas by my second papa." 

A good way to have a clean mind is to change it occasionally. 

Training is everything. The peach was once a bitter 
almond. Cauliflower is but cabbage with a college education. 

--Mark Twain 

A great man shows his greatness by the way he treats little 
men. --Carlyle 

Science teacher: "What is the most outstanding contribu- 
tion chemistry has given to the world"? 
Practical-minded student: "Blondes'. " 

Though confidence is very fine, 
And makes the future sunny; 
I want no confidence for mine, 
I'd rather have the money. 

Minds like streams may be so broad, they are shallow. 

With a book, 
A man is richer far 
Than kings and princes are, 
Though he no cities took; 
For in good books a vein of 

thought is found, 
Which, mined, exhaustless gold 
yields from the ground. 

--J.R. Clemens 


The College President: 

Such rawness in a student is a 


But lack of preparation is to 


The High School Principal: 

Good Heavens; What crudity*. 
The child's a fool 
The fault of course is with the 
grammar school. 

The Grammar School Principal: 

Would that from such a dunce I 
might be spared 4 . 
They send them up to me so un- 

The Primary Teacher: 

Poor kindergarten blockhead! 
And they call 

That "preparation". Worse than 
None at all. 

The Kindergarten Teacher: 

Never such lack of training did 
1 see*. 

What sort of person can the 
mother be ? 

The Mother: 

You stupid child! But then you're 

not to blame; 

Your father's family are all the 




Through the courtesy of Uncle Sam, this writer 
recently had an opportunity to observe and talk first-hand 
with the Japanese in their native land; to learn their way 
of life, thoughts and convictions. In everyday contacts and 
casual conversations with these people in all walks of life, 
I realized things which are generally unknown or mis- 
interpreted by the average American. Because the things 
I learned so completely changed my opinion of a people 
and their Empire, once bitterly engaged in war with Amer- 
ica, I would like to pass on this information to the reader. 

Perhaps this fact is most impressive: Contrary to therr 
popular belief, the majority of Japanese had little or no 
prior knowledge of the fateful decision of their militarists 
to attack Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941. It was a close- 
ly guarded secret, known only to high officials. 

After the blow was struck, the Japanese in general were 
indifferent in their feelings toward America. They, individ- 
ually, had no grievances with this nation far across the 
Pacific Ocean, but through objective propaganda widely 
disseminated by the militarists, their unquestioning obedi- 
ence to the Emperor, and through the dictatorial influence 
of their local governors, they kindled fanatical hate for 
America and all she stood for. The Japanese are highly 
emotional and very zealous in a cause. 

On one occasion, I talked with a voung man of twenty- 
one who had been in training as a kami-kaze piolet. He 
volunteered for this suicide task solely out of his love for 
the Emperor and the privilege to serve him, whose honor 
was at stake. The kami-kaze pilots were esteemed as heroes 


and martyrs of the highest order by their countrymen. These 
pilots were picked from those men who were mentally and 
physically qualified to quide a plane to crashing death on 
an American sea vessel. Unfortunately, my friend lost his 
chance to die an "honorable" death for he did not complete 
his training before American forces landed on his native 
soil and turned the tide of the Pacific War. 

The reaction of all Japanese to the atom-bombings of 
Nagasaki and Hiroshima was the same bewilderment, with 
thoughts of an inhuman and needless catastrophe. For 
time immemorial they will remember and re-live those 
fantastic pathetic moments of agony and despair, never 
understanding why it had to happen. 

In ultimate defeat, and under the decree of their Em- 
peror, the Japanese were humble and submissive to the 
Occupation Forces. They were greatly impressed by the 
reasonable American retribution demands and terms of 
surrender. They even accepted the unprecedented ab- 
dication of their Emperor with calm assurance and resig- 
nation, a defficult thing for the Japanese who are firm in 
their beliefs. Then, not for the first time in the history 
of their Emperor, they began to clear and rebuild their 

The continual contacts of the congenial American 
Occupation Personnel with the Japanese broke down their 
oriental passivity and created a new, revolutionary influ- 
ence on Japanese thought and life. Finally, the Occupation 
ended and the Japanese rejoiced throughout the Empire when 
their Prime Minister announced their renewed sovereignty. 
Japan set to the task of creating a new social system and 
winning international respect. 


On December 7, 1951, there was no noticeable observance 
of the tenth anniversary of that day when an unprovoked 
attack had begun what was to completely re-create the modes 
of life, liberty and thought of the Japanese people. But on 
that day this writer felt sure that in their bare meager 
dwellings many families bowed their heads in solemn 
meditation at the hour of the setting sun. 

Bill Fuhrman 

A kiss is a noun, because it is 
both common and proper; 
A kiss is a pronoun, because she 
stands for it. 

A kiss is a verb, because it is 
either active or passive; 
A kiss is an adverb, because it 
modifies the act. 
It is an interjection, because it 
shows strong and sudden feeling; 
It is a conjunction, because it connects. 

1st Vet; "I was shot through the leg at Kumsong." 

2nd Vet: "Have a scar"? 

1st Vet: "No thanks, I don't smoke." 

Mercury Reader: "So you make up all these jokes yourself"? 
Writer: "Yep--out of my head." 
Mercury Reader: "You must be." 



Give me a kiss the young man insisted, 
As around her waist one arm he twisted, 
I will said she if you only agree, 
To buy some spearmint gum, for me. 

The youth was wise and bought the gum, 
Then told her that he only wanted one, 
Alright my dear the young lady replied, 
For the gum you have not me denied. 

Now this is something I have never done, 
For a boy's arms I have always shunned, 
But if it is as good as the gum I chew, 
I know I will like it as well as you. 

He put his arms gently around her waist, 
And puckered his lips to get them in place, 
The nearer he got just to where they met, 
The faster she chewed, and her lips were wet. 

She then gave a grab with all her might, 

And threw her arms around him tight, 

She swallowed her gum, for fear she might miss 

Saying I love gum-but oh this bliss. 

Her gum was gone, and never to return, 
But for another kiss, she naturally yearned, 
Dog-gone the gum-said she-let it go, 
The kisses are better-give me some more. 

Courtney Pape 


A Satire2 
Professor Jonathan (Jack for short) Swift (to duck) Porter 

This is a satire(see footnote 3). As those poor creatures 
in English Bs^ and the poorer critter who leads them in 
group confusion know, this is impossible 4 . As they and you 
know, to say, "This is a satire", makes it stop being a satire. 
Consequently, this is not a satire. This is now a satire. )j- 

This is to be a satire (see footnotes 3,4, &5) on the 
students/ of Armstrong^ by one who understands and loves 
them as only Flagg could love Quirtg. As is quite obvious, 
a satire is a very scholarly workq. Consequently, I have used 
footnotes profusely (see footnotes below) and the work is high- 
ly derivative.- as all selections in the Armstrong English 
program are derivative.,. 

1 No relation to an English fella who comes between Chaucer 

and somebody else whose name I can't remember. 

2 No relation to another fellow who lived in France a long 
time ago. 

3 Note especially English 13s 

4 By "This" I do not mean this essay. It is quite possible-- 
probably even probable. 

5 As is plainly evident, this could grow into something of the 

proportions of the Pet Milk cow which goes on and on. 

6 Strange creatures I met on my journey to the bottom circle. 

7 This is a typographical error. No footnote is needed here. 

8 You can figure that one out by yourself. 

9 Or they obviously wouldn't be in the Armstrong English 

10 See footnote 8 above and others. 

11 Op^ Cit. 

12 Ibid . 


Now that all of that baloney is finished, I can really 
let my hair down and make the dirt fly. In making these 
penetrating and pungent remarks and filling up this bare 
bare white space, there are two alternatives—deal in person- 
alities or deal with types. Since I never deal in personalities 
except about people who have it coming to them and since 
there must not be more than about 250 students who have it 
coming to them, I am resigned to dealing with types and 
maybe a personality or so thrown in just to liven and spice 
things up a bit. 

Just as an example, take that Ned Stakes who has been 
sitting over in my English class for three quarters because h< 
heard that I had the silly habit of dropping dead before each 
final examination. This must be it because everytime I 
outline the questions that are to be on the final he says, "Aw, 
drop dead!" I'm sure everybody knows Ned--you know--the 
missing link. Honestly, I've netted him three times and 
zipped him over to Professor E. Bettlebottle McCray's 
biological museum before I remembered who he was. The only 
reason I remembered was that he said, "Duhhh; say prof, 
I don't mind you talkin' so loud when I'm tryna sleep in class, 
but just quit drappin' me over to Gamble Hall like this, willya? 
I'm an English major. I ain't no science major." I accepted 
this proof, as his speech obviously classified him as an 
Armstrong English major and a clear cut above the average 
Armstrong student in English usage. 

People like Ned don't annoy me nearly as much as people 
like Rupert Pigpen and Diana Lemon, however. I asked 
Rupert the other day, "Tell cogently what the philosophy 
the estimable Voltaire was satirizing in Pangloss' concaten- 
ation of events theory." Rupert said, "What's 'tell' mean?" 

The silence created by solid group concentration on 

Rupert's mind-churning query was shattered by Diana 


knocking her forehead on the table three times to indicate 
that she wished to contribute to the discussion. 

"I know Voltaire," she gushed helpfully, banging her 
eyelashes together in a series of fluttering crashes, "I saw 
him getting on the Nancy Hanks for Charleston yesterday." 

This engendered the silence it so rightfully deserved— 
with looks of commiserating contempt on the faces of all B 
students and above and gaping stares of open-mouthed apathy 
on the faces of those below. They all realized (as did I) that 
there was, after all, some extenuation for Rupert because he 
(like they) had not read the assignments for three weeks past. 
It was toward Diana that their (and my) scorn was turned 
with its s corching, withering blast, because even any first 
quarter Armstrong freshman (sane or even normal) should 

In spite of pleasant little occurances like these that gnaw 
the very soul out of one, Armstrong is a nice place. In 
other institutions less sublimely favored than we, instructors 
say, "Bub, you pass this test or you flunk! (Period, ex- 
clamation mark)" In the little haven at the foot of Forsyth 
Park, change the dialogue to read: 

FRIEND AND CONFESSOR: My young friend (I may 
call you Aloysius, mayn't I, Aloysius?) Please try to read 
at least one chapter before the discussion is completed next 
week. You'll find Dante simply delightful reading, I just 
know. Give it a try, won't you? 
Al: I do' wanna. 

F. & C: Oh, come along, please do. I shall have to assasi- 
nate your character in orientation if you don't, you 
Al: Oh, that's okay. (Arf! Arf!.) I was plannin' to tear 

yours to shreds anyhow. 


F. &t C: Now, now. Just for that, I shall have to see that 

you get a brass instead of a silver A. 
Al: Who cares ? 

F. & C: There doesn't seem to be the right degree of 

rapport between us. Couldn't we find a time mu- 
tually satisfactory to us both where we might talk 
through our difficulties? 
Al: Naw. I gotta make a fourth for bridge down at the 

(I notice that there is no space for a footnote at the bottom 
of the page so I will say here that "The Dump" is a place 
where you can get a hamburger for the price of a T-Bone 
steak, space to sit down and eat if you are Marilyn Monroe, 
and your arm broken for nothing. It is not to be confused with 
"The Nook" where you can set the lyrics of Shakespeare's 
Sonnet XIV to the melody of Grandmaw's Lye Soap.) 

Speaking of lye makes me think of poison and poison re- 
minds me of those whom I'm supposed to be satirizing. So 
let's get back to thinking about the little old Armstrong Stu- 
dents. (I need to get rid of this deviled crab anyway. It's 
been troubling me all evening since I ate it.) 

I must say that the Armstrong student situation is simply 
ripping. Where else could you find five students willing to 
handle all extra-curricular activities so that the other 250 
can play bridge in the dump? (See remarks above) 

Or where else find a group so unanimously thoughtful 
as to stay away from Armstrong basketball games in droves 
so as to keep from annoying the players, and to be absent 
en masse from such things as Masquers' plays and glee club 
concerts in order that the acoustics of a nearly empty audi- 
torium will fire the artists on to greater endeavors? 

There are really only three classes of Armstrong students- 
the ones who don't do anything, the ones who do only what they 


have to, and the ones who do what they have to and then some. 
To the ones who don't do anything, I give the wide open spaces 
to get lost in, or, if they prefer, a hole equipped to be jumped 
in and pulled in after them. (I'd like to trade them in on a 
yaller dawg and shoot the dawg but I'm afraid of the S.P.C.- 
D.A.) To the ones who do what they have to, I give my thanks, 
and/or payment for services rendered. To the ones who do 
what they have to and then some, I don't need to give any- 
thing- -they've got everything. 

(With apologies to Mother Goose) 

Once upon a time in a far-off land known as Texas, there 
lived a young girl named Little Rude Riding Hood. Now, Pie- 
face, as her friends called her (because she had so much crust) 
was a sweet little thing, just sixteen and barely five feet wide. 
One day Little Rude Riding Hood was watching "Drag-along 
Cassidy" on the family TV set, when her mother, a retired 
bartender and part-time college teacher, suggested that she 
carry a basket of "Goodies" over to her sick old Grandmother. 
So, reluctantly putting aside a bottle of strawberry yogurt, she 
grasped the brimming basket (which contained a carton of 
Schlitz, a few old copies of Mad Love Illustrated and two-weeks 
supply of Draino) and started out on her sleek convertible-a 
1921 Buick bicycle. 

As she pedaled merrily through traffic on her way to 
Granny's, she suddenly spied a lovely that she just had to have. 


Inconveniently enough, it happened to be blooming on a $50 
creation in the window of Ye Chic Chapeau Shoppe. Never 
having been the shy one, Little Rude nonchalantly picked up a 
brick and proceeded to get it. However, unknown to her, 
she was being watched by a wolf, --Wilbert Wolf, the store 
detective. Anyway, to make a long story "shot", Little Rude 
"took off" on her bike, followed in hot pursuit by Wilbert. She 
made a picturesque sight, her bow-legs, frantically revolving 
like a bilious windmill. But Wilbert, having recognized Little 
Rude (he was a former door-to-door yogurt salesman) realiz- 
ed where she was going and had taken a short cut. When Littl 
Rude finally arrived at Grandma's quaint little 24 room 
apartment, she was horrified to find that Granny had eloped 
with Wilbert, leaving behind only Old Grandad (a whole quart) 
and two left shoes; and, as the tale closes, Little Rude is 
seen sitting disconsolately on the floor "guzzling" beer from 
Granny's open-toes sneakers. 

The moral of this story is, "You can lead a horse to 
yogurt, but you can't make him throw stones at people who 
live in glass houses". 

J. G. 

It takes all kind of people to make a world. 

First the optimist and the pessimist 

The difference is droll 

The optimist sees the doughnut, 

The pessimist sees the hole. 


v\/*V^^ r l 



mm * 

W wk • 

V vl • 

■ \^ * 


When the toil of man is ended 
Life's tide drains to the deep. 
There the waves of peace 
Wash man's soul 
With their soft melodic sleep 

There the shouts of a tormented world 

Become one with the sea gull's cries. 

And the pain, the fears, 

And the gulfs of tears 

Melt away in the sea's swift tides. 

Laura Peeples 

To the sea 
The foam-flecked waves 
The depths of darkness, I have co me 
I fling my heart out to the sea; it sinks; 
It rises up in flame. Is touched; 
Is cooled and recreated 
From the dark, a 
Primal beating. 
Feeling, feeling 
Not as day minds control feeling. 
From the deep of slumber's ocean 
Rises forth to live again. 




Everybody knows Charlie Rockwell, Middleweight 
champion of the world, eighty-three pro fights and no 
losses, 72 by KO's. What's that? Oh yes, he's at Pomp- 
ton Lakes now, getting in shape for the Montivoni fight. 
He's one swell guy. Dynamite in both fists yet a stranger 
might take him for a haberdashery salesman. 

Charlie and I were overseas during the last war and 
we had a lot of good times but the best was the time in 
England that he got a crush on the daughter of this high 
society dame. "You've got plenty of time! It's only 
eight fifteen and women are always late anyway." Here 
Boy, another beer over here*. " Well as I was saying 
she was a beauty alright and I don't blame Charlie a bit 
for going for her. It all started like this: He and I had 
spent all day in Liverpool, just browsing around you know. 
We had started back along Lime street to the train sta- 
tion, and we were cussing the misting rain and the Limey 
weather as we jumped a puddle and turned into the sta- 
tion. The train was just about to pull out and we dashed 
through the tall metal gates and sprinted down the plat- 
form alongside the row of cars; they all seemed full. Up 
ahead the engine was coughing and wheezing and the train 
was moving when we spotted an empty seat, opened the 
car door and leaped in. 

Darn funny arrangement on those trains you know, 
only two seats facing each other with a door opening on 
the side in the middle. Just like a western stage coach. 
Well, we both sat there huffing and blowing and it must 
have been ten seconds before I noticed the girl sitting 
across from us on the opposite seat. Charlie said some- 


thing about British trains really leaving on schedule and 
she smiled. Everybody sat silent for a few minutes and 
I could tell Charlie was getting ready to say something 
when she dived down in a sort of traveling bag and pulled 
out a copy of the London Times. She opened it up and 
held it across in front of her. You've heard of husbands 
hiding behind the morning paper at breakfast; that's just 
the way it was and all we saw were two sets of fingers 
holding the thing up. We rode on like that for a few miles 
when she lowered the paper, smiled at Charlie and pointed 
out the window. "How green that field is," she remarked, 
" Oh, to be in England now that April's here." "Then, 
if ever, come perfect days," replied Charlie. "Cigarette?" 
He extended his pack, then offered her a light. Well, they 
carried on the small talk all the way in and we walked her 
out of the station. That's when 1 got the big surprise. 
She had asked Charlie to go home with her and see the 
folks and he had agreed. I never did like to visit English 
families; they always place you in a straight back chair, 
shove a cup of tea in one hand, a scone in the other and 
while you jiggle the saucer on your knee, ask if there is 
anything else you need--Charlie was all for it though. 

Outside, a uniformed chauffeur opened the door of a 
long black car and we were soon speeding through the 
dark. Like half the babes in England, her name turned 
out to be Berryl. At her home a maid brought in hot 
tea and crackers and we sat in the high-ceiling living 
room, talking. After a while Berryl got up and went 
over to one of those grand pianos and began to play. 
Charlie and I followed her over and after she had dabbled 
around with some classical stuff, we all began to sing; 
just old familiar songs, the kind everyone knows, when 
suddenly the front bell rang. 


It turned out to be her boyfriend, Ronald. It wasn't 
hard to tell that this Ronald wasn't glad to see us there 
with his girl. He just stood glowering and when Berryl 
pushed a cup of tea in his hand he took it grudgingly and 
sat down. Charlie was sitting on a love seat next to Berryl, 
helping adjust a napkin in her lap and this Ronald began to 
really get hot. He kept looking at Charlie as if he were 
sizing him up to see if he could beat him or not and then 
a funny smile settled on his face. "I say there, Yank," 
he began. "You look like a pretty plucky fellow and I 
know you won't mind helping me out at the Athletic Club 
Thursday next." Charlie had been looking into Berryl's 
eyes while he pjayed with her little finger. He looked up 
now blankly and said "Huh?" Ronald went on with a rush, 
"Thursday next, Athletic Club and all that. I was to engage 
in fistics and my opponent will be indisposed: as we're the 
same weight, I thought you would like to substitute." He 
paused, looked at Charlie ruefully and added, "But , of course, 
if you'd rather not, some people shy away from bodily contact 
in sports you know." 

Now Charlie was about 23 then, he had won some sixty 
amateur fights, was national middle weight Golden Glove 
Champion, ETO Armed Services Champion and was fight- 
ing on cards every two weeks at the base. When this jerk 
said this, I set my cup on the floor as fast as possible, 
grabbed my stomach and started to howl! 

Berryl jumped to her feet. She cried out "Ronald 
Culberth, you're just horrid, you haven't told Charlie that 
you are simply wizard in the ring! " 

Charlie's face was split in a broad grin and he placed 
his finger over his lips to quiet me. "You don't think 
there's any chance of my getting hurt do you?" he asked. 
"Not at all", replied Ronald. "I'm not the one to take ad- 
vantage of an inexperienced man." His face was very smug 


alright. "Okay then, I'll be there'.," said Charlie, "and the 
winner will take Berryl home." They each held one of her 
hands and she smiled up at them in pleasure. "Good Oh'." 
said Ronald with a big smile and reached for his hat, patted 
Berryl on the back of the hand and left. 

During the next five days the whole base buzzed with 
the news of the oncoming bout. This Limey thought Charlie 
couldn't box a lick and was planning to give him a lacing to 
impress his girl. From Private to Colonel the story was 
the topic of the day. Charlie ran two miles each morning 
and in the evening worked on the heavy bag with Buzz Hagan. 
Hagan was a so-so club fighter and a good sparring partner. 

The night of the fight there were twenty trucks taking the 
boys in to town to the fight and when Chuck, his trainer, Jake 
Walsh and myself arrived and walked down the middle aisle on 
our way to the dressing room, the roof nearly blew off 
when they spotted him. Those Limeys were really dumb- 
founded. Here they were with a small amateur card and 
expecting a poor crowd and instead find the place filled to 
the rafters with Yanks'. 

Ronald had already arrived and was sitting up in one 
of the seats with Berryl. His hands were taped and he 
looked a little nervous. Guess that with the sight of Char- 
lie, carrying bag in hand, prancing down the aisle with his 
trainers and all the Yanks screaming "Put 'em away, Chuck 
Boy'.", he was beginning to wonder. 

Charlie's fight was last on the card and we stayed down 
in the dressing room until time to go. Chuck kept warm 
dancing around. Jabbing at nothing. His muscles rippled 
under his shoulders. Jake had wrapped his hands and he 
was ready to go. In a few moments he sat down on the 


dressing table and Jake draped the robe over his shoulders. 
It was an old robe, faded and worn, and on the back was a 
big circle with the words 'Golden Gloves 1941' written on 

When we went up the place went wild. We made our way 
down the aisle and followed Charlie through the ropes. Ron- 
ald was already in the opposite corner. He looked white and 
the smug look of the other evening was gone now. The man 
in his corner looked at Charlie as he trotted to a neutral 
corner and danced in the rosin. He saw the well worn box- 
ing shoes, the Everlast trunks, and the masklike calmness 
on Charlie's face and he must have figured Charlie for a 
ringer as he bent down hurriedly to say something to his 

They came out for instructions. Jake removed Charlie's 
robe and he was back in my corner. I hurriedly shoved in 
his mouth piece, and the bell rang. Have you ever seen a 
panther in the jungle, well that's the way Charlie moved 
in the ring. They came out, touched gloves, and then 
Charlie went to work. He's a southpaw you know. Well 
that right hand was out front as usual, he kept jabbing 
Ronald back across the ring, three, four, maybe five 
times and then he slammed that left hand in Ronald's 
stomach. It sounded like a hundred pound sack of 
sugar dropping on the floor. You could hear the smack 
of it in the top balcony'. Ronald started down and Charlie 
caught him midway with a left hook to the jaw that changed 
the direction of his fall. Charlie danced to a neutral cor- 
ner and the referee didn't bother to count. The crowd went 
wild. They say Major Fawcett, who had brought four truck 
loads of his men 86 miles from Farmouth to see the match, 
got so excited he threw his hat over the ring and never did 
get it back. 


Later that night, Berryl, Charlie, Jake Walsh and I 
were having supper in the subdued light of Benclays, an 
exclusive supper club. We had finished our chops and as 
we sat there, listening to the music, Charlie and Berryl 
sat across from us on the inside of the plush circle. They 
were turned sideways to face each other. Charlie held her 
hands and she looked dreamily up at him. 

Jake cleared his throat and pulled at my arm. "Let's 
get out of here you jerk 4 . ", he whispered, "Can't you see 
guys like us are in the way'. " I laid a pound note on the table 
and we eased off. As we were leaving, I took a last look over 
my shoulder and they were holding one another tightly in a kiss 

Duncan King 

The Ladder of Success: 

100% 1 did 

90% 1 will 

80 % 1 can 

70% 1 think I can 

60% 1 might 

50% 1 think I might 

40% What is it? 

30% 1 wish I could 

20% 1 don't know how 

10% 1 won't 

0% 1 can't 


^Quannah, &eor<|'«q 


ArmsVomj Collie 

The staff 

Editor Betty Burriss 

Assist. Editor Bill Fuhrman 

Business Editor Susannah Robertson 

Business Committee Helen Youngblood 

Harry DeLorme 

Art & Make-up Jim Moody 

Bill Wilson 
Jack Golden 
Fred Baldwin 
Jean Bolen 

Circulation Jim Moody 

Fred Baldwin 

Typists Kitty Browne 

Lola Gerbasi 
Lou Vaughn 


The spring is beloved as a time of looking forward and 
renewing hope; but, too, it is a time of looking back- -and 
in the case of our experience of Armstrong—renewing hope . 
Remember when you registered-your first day of classes — 
how small you felt, and how important too? Remember your 
first experience of presenting your real thoughts, and feelings 
into a class discussion and having them accepted and encoura 
aged? Remember how eagerly you rushed over to the library 
to find more information because you were a real part of that 
class and felt personally connected with that wonderful new 

Remember the great thrill you felt the first time a faculty- 
member addressed you by your first name- not as to a student 
but as to a friend? 

Remember the Instructors who understood who guided and 
encouraged you when you "had no idea" of what might be 
your career or future interests? 

Remember when the thought suddenly struck you during some 
thought-provoking discussion, that you not only wanted to earn 
a living; you wanted to make a life, and how eagerly you listen- 
ed to others' feelings on what that life could be? 

Remember? That brings back much, doesn't it? And is it 
magic that evokes this remembering? Hardly. It is no magic 
but the care and understanding of each to each. 

That is our dream of ideals for Armstrong, and if we leave 
you now, it is with that parting thought. 
The year, our two years, has been full. 

Here is a school which we hope will always bring learning 
to the level of each student's heart, thus making meaningful 
the past, out of which the present has evolved, and from which 
Learning has come. 

Now — at the end of the year — we can say that our work with 
the staff has been especially rewarding. To the faculty, our 
thank-you would hardly be sufficient. You have given us this 
ideal; we hope that Armstrong's tomorrow will be your 

To all, faculty and students, we say again^ no t good-by, but 
:arry on. 




The day shall come when the fears of man are 
abolished—when the utter chaos of the world is si- 
lenced—the day when peace of mind for all shall ex- 
ist—the day when God, the Supreme Being, will be 

We are only mortals in an everlasting struggle for 
knowledge, peace, and the beauty of understanding of 
our fellow man. Being mortals, we are unable, in our 
search, to find an absolute answer. For, when we reach 
the ultimate point, doubt and fear overcome us and we 
turn to God. 

The skeptic asks, "Do we have proof this God exists? 
Have we not created this being, in our minds, to conceal 
our own ignorance and inability to discover the truth?" 
Can we know why a leaf is born 
To live in the richness of life 
To die— falling to the earth 
from whence it originated 
After death — to create life 
of which it is void? 
We must search for the proof of His existence. 
The first way to know God is by sheer reason- 
through the brain. If logic be a science, then one should 
be able to prove or disprove the existence of God- 

Has any eye seen an atom? Yet the survivors of Hiro- 
shima and Nagasaki know its terrible actuality. Beyond 
vision or touch, these minute particles have, nevertheless, 
been demonstrated. They exist— reservoirs of incredible 
power and destruction! 

Every student knows how at one time an astronomer 
discovered a star without ever having looked upon it. 
So exact was his knowledge of stellar mathematics that 
he calculated — he did not have to believe — he knew there 
must be another planet in our solar system or else the 
whole celestial system would destroy itself. And, so 


in like manner, our Father in Heaven reveals Himself 
to the logical mind. 

However we prefer first hand reality-while it is 
possible for a person to read a book on swimming and 
come to know aquatics thoroughly by theory and diagram— 
we would rather plunge into a pool and swim. We all 
exult in the joy of experience, free motion, the splendor 
of survival in another element. 

This is the second way to know God; through personal 

Through prayer we know there is a God--that He 
exists as a father and friend. 

Prayer is not a slot machine into which a request is 
dropped and a boon comes tumbling out of the bottom. 
We should pray for help, but more often we pray our 
trankfulness for blessings already received. Above 
all, we pray daily in close contact, in communion, with 
the Father of Man, asking nothing whatever but the joy 
of knowing Him. 

We must do his will as best we are able to grasp it— 
with unremitting prayer, that cosmic force, intimate 
though vast, which like the sun shall warm us with God's 
personal embrace—and yet aids in the ripening of fields 
of grain and raises the water to the clouds. 

The spiritual life must be the goal of every thinking 
person. Only when the heart is right can the soul make 
proper use of its chief instrument--the brain. God has 
told us there is a Truth and that we must find it in 
order to be free. This truth, too laree for the pettv mind 
of man is not too large for his soul to conquer. 

The immortal soul might not grasp all the details of 
His words--but it is able to realize their righteousness. 

But man, with his brain, is denying the truths of re- 
vealed religion — relying on his own ideals and principles- 
destroying the world. 

Man has turned himself away from God, from religion. 
For if man sincerely believed in the great goals of religion 
he could not conceive of the destructive use of atomic en- 


er gy__of wa r — or any form of needless , senseless blood- 

In our prayer books, in the scriptures, it is written: 
"Turn thou us unto thee, Oh Lord--let us return — renew 
our days as of old". 

There would be no choice in man's mind--the path will 
have been shown--the words: understanding, prosperity, 
mutual respect, would actually leap up and clasp him by 
the mind and soul and say "Follow". Man must and shall 

It can be seen that we have in religion the necessary 
knowledge to guide us; for not until man comes to the re- 
alization of God, by returning to Him, can he choose life 
and peace of mind. 

This then is the key to man's survival. For without 
God there is no life. Man must recognize God's existence. 
Then, and only then, can he himself exist. 

Men, through religion, the sincere belief and practice 
of it, shall create harmony with men — so that the day when 
God will be known to all shall be at hand. 

--Robert Friedman 

Epitaph for Benjamin Franklin 
"The body of Benjamin Franklin, Printer, (like the cover 
of an old book, its contents torn out and stripped of its letter- 
ing and gilding), lies here food for worms, yet the work itself 
shall not be lost, for it will (as he believes) appear once more 
in a new and more beautiful Edition, Corrected and Amended 
by the Author." 

Life is a grindstone, and whether it grinds a man down or 
polishes him up depends on the stuff he's made of. 



The cries of war are silent now, 

The din of battle past. 
The bloody fields, the pain and want, 

Are things that do not last. 

The rumbling thunder of the guns 
While bullets screaming fly, 

The soulful piteous echo heard 
As those who suffer cry, 

Are gone, almost forgotten now. 
The torn earth is so still, 

But--there is one lone reminder- 
Solemn crosses on a hill. 

Laura Peeples 

(From the 'Green Room' Window) 

The cold air filters through windows and cracks 

Chilling and filling and leaving its tracks. 

The sun is veiled behind ominous clouds 

And Nature is covered with deathly shrouds. 

The doors are locked and windows are shuttered; 

The small friendly hearth becomes quite cluttered. 

The rain clouds form and are broken apart 

B Y J a gg e d forks of lightning bright and stark. 

The winds come together with rude delight 

As though they were gods in mythical fight. 

The animals run and scurry for home 

Driven by winds and their horrid moan. 

Nature is forming battalions on high 

To harry and rend the proud haughty sky. 



Na, sah, ma wife, she be gone to dah promise 
Ian' 'bout sixty year now. Don't know why from 
dah Good Lord, he take her from ne, but he got 
a good 'ooman. Mc? I be Christmas, Christmas 
Jones. I been libbin' heah in Drakey ebba since 
I was a young darky; dat wuz afore dah yankees 
done come an' burn down dah house, an' kill off 
ma mammy an ' pappy, along wid dah Rices (God 
bless dah sweet souls ob dem au). 

Ya, sah, I sho do 'member dah Rices, cause 
dey wuz dah finest white folk dat Christmas done 
ebber know. Miss Ruth use' a brung au dah darkys 
wata when we be workin' in dah fieldo An' young 
masta Paul, he wuz a fine, a fine mon; use'd gib he 
ole shoe tu ma pappy. Ma pappy, he tell me dat 
au mastas not good like masta Paul. He tell me 
dat afore he come heah, he use' a cotch dah whip 
across dah back ifin' he don't work hard'nuf ; an' 
he nebba et no meat 'cept fat back., Why, we had 
pig an' cow ob' our own, an' dah gwrad'n in dah 
back ob our house wuz au'ways full up wid fine 
watamelon, an' collad green. Pappy, he tell me 
'bout how dey not sing songs at nite afore he come 
tu Drakey tu. I 'member how dah darky au gotta 
'round our pouch an' jus' sing, an' laff. Use'a play 
game tu'; au kin'a game. Miss Ruth an' masta Paul 
wuz au'ways dah tu sing an' play wid us tu„ Dey sho 
tear in he ole eye, masta boss, but I's gwin' tu. Dey 
sho wuz fine white folkl 'Scuse dah ole darky fo'get- 
tin' tear in he ole eye, masta boss, but I's gwin' tu 
lub dem til dah day I close ma' ole eyes an' weep no 
mo' fo' dem. 

Na, sah, I don't know whur dey bury dah tresur; dey 
got kill jus' affa dey bury it though. I 'member how 
we wuz singin' one nite, an' down dah road come some 


soldya' in gra breeches. Dey wuz bleedin' , andaholl- 
in' wid pain. Masta Paul run ub'tu dem: den he call us 
darky tu git dem in he house. Au nite long ma mammy 
an' miss Ruth, dey docta dem. Au us young darky men 
fetch wata from da well. Masta Paul, he take pappy an' 
da other darky men tu dah shed an' gib dem guns; den 
dey go off tu dah wood. Nex mornin' I see pappy comin' 
out ob da wood, can-in' dah masta obba he back. 

Ya, sha, dah masta, he die js' affa he tell pappy dat 
nuffin' shu' hoppen tu miss Ruth. Dah masta, he don't 
haffa worry 'bout missRuth, fo' ma pappy, he lub ha' 
jus' lik' he lub dah masta. He try hard to look affa miss 
Ruth; he ebben die lookin' affa ha'. 

Na, sah, it wuz jus' affa dah masta, he die, dat dah yan- 
kee come ub da road. Dey wuz singin' a song bout grapes, 
when one ob dem, he see miss Ruth runnin' tu da house. 
He chase ha', but ma pappy, he cotch 'em an' pick 'emau 
de way obber he head. Den he throw dem agin dat oak 
tree cross obber deah. Dats when dey shoot pappy. Dey 
come cross de fields wid yells, an' fire acomin' fromdey 
guns. Pappy, he don't run, but jus' stan deah fo' tu pray 
tu dah Good Lord. I knows tu dis day, dat dah Lord, he 
hear ma pappy pray tu, cause jus' affa he turn he hed from 
dah sky, he look jus' lik' a heav'ly angel. 

Deah wuz a glow, an' he look bigga, an' 1 knowned den, 
dat dah Lord, he be in ma pappy. I nebba see a fight on 
dah Savannah Riva dat ebba look lik' dis one. Deah come 
dat yankee cross dah field wid dey guns shottin' right at 
ma pappy, an* he jus kept walkin', an' walkin', an' singin' 
hymns, an' swingin" dah ax in hehan'. Den it hoppen! dah 
yellin', flashin' ob guns, an' dah swingin' ob ma pappy's 
ax. Dah glow wuz still deah au thru dah fightin', an' dah 
glow wuz still deah affa he stan' obba dah yankee on dah 
groun', an' say "Masta, I try". Dat wuz de las' he ebba 
say on dis earf, fo' he fall deah tu join he masta. 


Ya, sha, miss Ruth, she wuz in da house wid ma mammy. 
Me? I wuz in dah barn weah ma mammy, she put me; dats 
how I see ebba thing dat hoppen. Dats how I see dah torch 
affa dah sun go down, an' dat how I see da house cotch fire„ 
De torch, it jus' lit from no place, an' hed fo' dah house. I 
yell, but ma mammy, she don't hear, an' jus' when I go tu' 
run tu ma mammy, dah house cotch fire, an' burn lik' a wood 
afire. Deah wuz a lot ob nois', den dah scream obmamammy 
an' den nuffin' but dah soun' ob dah wind in dah tree, an' dah 
riva washin' again dah bank. Dah nex' day I see dah ashes ob 
dah house, dah ashes ob dem I lubb, an' I see dah ashes ob 
Drakey; I see dah ashes ob a life I know no mo'. 

Na, sah, I's heah au'most au dah while. Good-bye tu you, 
sah. Thank yah, sah, thank yah, sah, Liza'. Lizal 'woman! 
Go fetch dah car; dah good car. WE jus' fetch ou' selbs a 
nudda sucka who done heah dah tale ob Drakey, an' is lookin' 
fo* da tresur. I tell yah though woman, I jus' hope dat dah 
Good Lord jus' hav' mercy on a ole darky who wuz jus' tryin 
tu mak 1 a libbin'. Oh, ya, an' ya betta see how dah still be 
comin' long tul 

— Ed Paetzel 

A matter of honor: George Washington had more ready 
wit than history seems inclined to credit him with, and could 
very competently hold his own in the art of repartee. 

One day, as he sat at the table after dinner, he complained 
that the fire burning in the hearth behind him was too large 
and hot. 

"But sir," rejoined the guest, "it behooves a general to 
stand fire." 

"But," came the instant reply, "it does not become a 
general to receive it from the rear." 

Do not resent growing old; many are denied the privilege. 



Dark grow the swamp trees, the signet of ages 
upon them, 

Shading the waters beneath, now stirring and 

Bearded with moss and grave in the gathering 

Soon to return to their dreams and their visions 
of slumber. 

Down through the islands of swamp grasses 
whispers the river, 

Shadowed by kingdoms of flowers and covered 
with lilies; 

Still in its waiting to cover the vastness beyond 

To blot out the dying that creeps through its 
unknown forests. 


4W ""< 





^ » * r*»<e* (*D 

Softly the creatures of nightfall move through 
the shadows, 

Crying their loneliness into the fading of sun- 

Softly the gloom and the chill of the fog and 
its secrets 

Cover the jungle like visions and merge into 

Still lies the swampland; the pulse of the ages 
is quieted now. 

In a moment the curtain of evening, spangled 
with Stardust is 

Lowered, and faded the brooding of cypresses 
shrouded in moonlight, 

Returned to their centuries' dreams and their 
visions in slumber. 



Vasco Nunez de Balboa 
When crossing the Isthmus of Panama 

in 1513 
Probably wished he had an Aerosol bomb 

For there were the greatest quantity 

of exotic tropical creatures 
Whose most prominent features 
were lots of legs 
which 25 kegs 
of DDT 
wouldn't annihilate 
And it's a wonder 
That Vasco did any mapping 

for vigorous slapping 
and applications of merthiolate. 


\A)Wr^ \ WAS A^ 

A»JO suet? £imc.e- ^ 
iM&efJe-RM- mkkes. Me FOMftie 

A^O eSPeClACti )»J THOSE' T\6-HT 

?LAees / ^ K • • • -TUG- 







All through the years, many people, old and young, have 
different outlooks on life; some are bad and some are good, 
but they take it or leave it without giving serious thought to 
the matter. They think it's just another thought God has put 
in their minds to think about. If people of today would ser- 
iously think about this subject, it might change a few of their 
minds and a brighter phase of life would appear to them. 

Three of the highest topics, pertaining to this subject, 
are maturity, happiness, and getting along wtth others. 
Think for a moment; do these have a meaning to you? They 
should, because here's why-- 

Don't always anticipate good things to come because 
bad things come with the good. Looking far ahead into the 
future is not so good to plan on. You can think about it but 
don't definitely decide what's to be and what's to come. No- 
body can foresee the future with perfect vision. You should 
live for each day and get the most out of it and accomplish 
what you can. Every body should realize that 'they only live 
once' and in one's life time each person should have a goal 
to work towards whether it be a career or marriage. Every 
bit of education that you receive will be of value as the days 
pass. Take advantage of it; a lot of people can't afford any 
at all. Something that is studied today might help tomorrow. 
If you think along these lines, you have maintained a form of 

Happiness is one of the goals you should have, whether 
it comes to you without realizing it or accompanies the aim 
in life you are working towards. Although happiness can't 
be sought like a job, for instance, it comes when least ex- 
pected. Happiness, being an emotional feeling, and stating 
that you should know your own self, brings along with it 
peace of mind and of well being. Happiness, too, is a form 
of maturity and by having this emotional status, you will 
have that peace of mind which some people never obtain. 


Getting along with the world and the people who are 
the inhabitants of it is quite hard to do unless you under- 
stand yourself first and then it will be easy to know other 
people. Don't judge everyone from first impressions, 
Get to know their inside feelings first before judging their 
outside feelingSo Being at Armstrong, with a small enroll- 
ment, it's easy for one to make friends because you see 
them everyday and get to know them as the days go by. 
It's a wonderful feeling to have people that you c an trust 
as friends and know that the light of keeping friends will 
never go out but continue throughout the years to come. 

Getting along with others is inter-related with happiness 
in a lot of ways. Accept people for what they are and you 
will find that they will do the same for you. Personality 
is everything that makes a person develop during child- 
hood and continue growing each year. How a person thinks 
is what they believe and people should realize it. Listen 
to what others think and believe but don't criticize them 
because you think and believe another way. You can listen 
to advice but you don't always have to follow it, if you 
think that your decisions are right. Some people profit 
by their own mistakes and it's a good experience for their 
future. By all means, 'know thyself and you will under- 
stand other people and their way of life. Life is indescri- 
bable, a period of time which people go through -whether 
pleasant or not depends upon the individual. 

Happiness and the right to get along with each other 
are attributes that apply to people of all ages. People 
who reach maturity also develop tolerance or the heart's 
vision of people as they really are rather than what they 
appear to be. 

--Sandy Cohen 



Rain platters down in a sing-song 

Washing a heavy-caked street 
Outside my window, 
And the burning fire roars 

soft response, 
To the wind's great blow. 

I hear a dog's whine, 

And the sound of a step, 

A voice to break my solitude, 

Shadows fall and people go; 

Once again I am alone. 

In the dusy quiet of a shadow- 
filled room; 
Majesty reigns in splendor, 
An ancient vase of hazy brown 
Colored in golden hues, 
Takes me to oriental rooms 
And another rain. 

What is it I write of-- 
A story of loneliness-- 
A gawdy pack of cards, that 
Spell out solitude- 
Is that all? Rain that 
Never quenches the thirst 
of empty graves--? 

I write of rain--wet rain 
That chills the body-- 
I write of a brown vase 
Beautiful, but common-- 


Not of glamour, because 
I am not glamour- 
Not of empty graves — 
Because I am young. 

Young — just born — swelling in growth 

I write — 

Old Teresias lead me through 

The wet rain-- 

Confucius of the brown vase 

Write me an epitaph-- 

Mine will not be an empty grave. 

— B.G. 

The bumble bee cannot fly, according to aero-technical 
formulae based upon laboratory tests, because its wing span 
is not properly proportioned to the shape and weight of its 
body. But the bumble bee doesn't know this, so it goes ahead 
and flies anyway. 

Confucius said: "When you knew a thing to hold that you know 
it, and when you do not know a thing to know you do not, this 
is knowledge." 

A.n old Arabian proverb: "Men are four: He who knows not 
and knows not he knows not; he is a fool — shun him; He who 
knows not and knows he knows not, he is simple — teach him; 
fie who knows and knows not he knows, he is asleep — wake him; 
Be who knows and knows he knows, he is wise — follow him." 


HaUovjeo HaWs 

o Aamn totter ! 

re tAbs ! 



JNmh 'i\/^i .IV^ W« 

1 a*>wt- 

i \ 


M«l! AfcR\coi.To*e J 

f J-ow> A*n> Faoma 
B\Rt>S an& BE^'Z- 


IS \JU - H |a[ 

TttAJT stoff ^^J f 




A young tot scribbling on the walls, 

Women gossiping across a yard-fence, 

Doctors rushing to their calls, 

Room for all with liberal rents, 

Band concerts at the park, 

Transportation for a dime, 

The voice of the robin and the lark, 

A glass of water anytime, 

Education for adults and kids, 

Wedding bells every day, 

Lots of fun to blow no lids, 

Zany songs by Johnny Ray, 

Records to break, goals to be won, 

Newspapers, magazines, and books, 

The Gospel of a man called John, 

Smiles, laughs, and dirty looks, 

Bread, butter, and milk from a cow, 

The radio, and TV, 

A blackened eye, a respectful bow, 

Factories, shops, and Washington, D.C., 

Opera, drama, movies, ballet, 

Wise cracks by guys like Crosby and Hope, 

A cartoon, editorial, novel, essay; 

If all this is here, come what may be, 

We will be thankful that we are free*. 

--Bill Fuhrman 

A little three-year-old boy cried bitterly as a large friendlyl 
dog bounded up to him, licking his hands and face. "What is 
his mother asked. Did he bite you?" "No," came the repl; 
"but he tasted me." 

■ » ■ i i ■ ■ ■» 

When I was a boy of fourteen, my father was so ignorant 

I could hardly stand to have the old man around. But when 
I got to be twenty-one, I was astonished at how much the ol 
man had learned in seven years. --Mark Twain 



Colleges are under many kinds of pressure. One of these 

financial: a certain number of students must be attracted 

order for the school to remain in operation,, Another pres- 
ire is the obligation to serve the community, which is inter- 
eted by most people to mean that all graduates of secondary 
hools who indicate a desire for a college education should 

served according to their wishes and capabilities, 
t is true that a college can attract large numbers of people 

offering instruction on a level that appeals to those not 
entally or psychologically equipped for higher education, and 

those who wish to attend college in their spare time. But 
ere is a moral problem involved here, rooted in the nature 


\ large number of students fail because they are not inte- 
sted enough to make an intensive effort. The obvious solu- 
>n is to stimulate their interest. This is a difficult problem, 
d the solution is not to be reached by requiring less effort, 
t more, and only those students who will become personally 
solved in a study are capable of being interested in it. 
[f courses requiring less effort were offered, what would hap- 
m? At first glance it might seem that this was successful, as 
ore students remained and passed courses. But if we operate 
l the premise that education is change, a serious doubt may be 
lised as to whether there is any education in these courses. 
One way to require less effort is to offer courses consisting 
cclusively of factual information which can be memorized and 
jpeated on objective tests. Many people coast through courses 
I this sort under the illusion that they are learning something. 

few years later they may or may not realize that all they got 
it of a course was a grade. 
It is true that no matter what approach is used in any course 

will very likely be impossible to achieve the involvement of 
whole class. But if the educable are to have a chance, we 
ust refuse to do for them what they can do for themselves; 


we must refuse to consider a student educated when he has pe 
formed enough tricks of memory to receive a passing grade; \xi 
must refuse to accept superficial participation as the only me 
sure of excellence; in short, we must refuse to pervert educat 
into either indiscriminate seat-warming or indoctrination. 

Education is often thought of as a time of storing up skills, a 
one may save odd pieces of string just in case they will come 
handy later. Some skills are valuable: the science major will 
use and improve his scientific skills, the home economist will 
put her college-learned skills into good use in the home, the 
foreign language student will find many uses for his skill if he 
continues his studies, and everybody will profit from any in- 
creased skill in the use of his own language. But these skills 
are largely non-transferable. The most meticulous scientist 
may be wildly disorganized in his human relationships; the mo 
logical mathematician may be the most emotionally prejudiced 
participant in politics; the most skillful linguist may be the mo 
illogical thinker in other conceptual areas. College-learned 
skills, as skills, will simple be of no use at all in many instan 

If the college years could be considered a time of becoming, 
rather than a time of preparation for the performance of spec 
fie but unspecified tasks, these years might prove of real pra 
tical value. Each new concept fully mastered, each new inch 
perspective gained, each value strengthened or newly perceiv 
each new insight into one's own self or others, is an element 
the experience which college could be, and each is part of a p 
cess: a becoming. 

Our environment may be thought of a giant electrical systen 
with numerous plugs into a student and no current turned on. 
The potential current is the student's will and effort by which 
establishes connections appropriate to himself with various a 
pects of the environment. As these various aspects emerge in 
meaning in different courses of the curriculum, and as a stud 
penetrates new concepts, he establishes a live current. This 
connection with his environment is illumination. It is educa- 

-- Margaret Spencer Lubs 


library o£" 

Armstrong College 
Savannah, Georgia 

JONi m 




Armstrong College Spring Quarter 


Jim Moody 

Bill Fuhrman 


Bettye Morekis 
Pat Lott 

Susannah Robertson 
Margaret Berry 
Jo Ann Dewberry 


By Hubert Mallory 
(Winner of the 1954 Mercury Prose Prize] 

I don't know if I'll get to finish this but 
I've got to try. It's almost time now, just a 
few minutes to go. It seems so funny but it will 
happen; it always has happened. The camera 
hasn't lied yet. You, who read this, must believe 
it. It may sound fantastic but it's true, 

I remember it so well, two weeks ago last 
Tuesday in the late afternoon I, a free-lance photo- 
grapher, was working on an assignment down in 
the Chinese section of the city when I came upon 
the little junk shop. I had been taking photos of 
the life in the slums when this shop caught my eye. 
What a picture it would make, 1 thought when I 
raised my camera. As I set the range finder, a 
unique object focused into sight. It was a strange 
looking instrument. I snapped the carr\era and 
went over to the window to get a closer look at the 
object that had stood out in the sight. It was a 
camera or that is what I though it was. 

I walked into the shop where an old Chinese 
man asked in broken English what I was looking 
for. I pointed to the object in the window and 
asked what it was. He said it was a picture box 
from China. I presumed he meant a camera, so 
I asked what the price was. The old man got a 
business smile on hLs face and. replied, "fifty dollar." 

Fifty? I was surprised, 
"Ah, but dis iss specials pictor-box, it 
come from China and hav power of de God 
of future . " 

God of future ? I shook my head and told 
him twenty bucks cash. It was a unique 
looking camera and, just for the hell of 
it, I wanted it. I pulled out two Hamiltons 
and stuck them under his nose, He reached 
for them, mumbled something in Chinese 
and handed me the "picture box". I left, the 
little store and headed home. 

That night, as I was cleaning my regu- 
lar camera, I decided to take a closer look 
at my Chinese picture box. It looked some- 
thing like an American box camera except 
it had more gadgets on it and all the writing 
on it way Chinese even some painted wr-.tmg 
on the back. I examined it and found it to 
operate just like a standard camera, diaphram, 
speed control, and all just like my old cameras. 
I opened up the back and discovered that it 
would take 122 film size, 122 is what they call 
post-card size here in the U.S. , not used very 
often except in older types of U.S. models. 
What luck, maybe this old "Chinese junk" 
would take good photos. I would get film for 
it tomorrow and try it out. 

The next day I went down to Hal's Camera 
Shop. I usually got all my photo supplies there 
so when I asked for 122 film, Hal, owner of 

the shop, asked if I had a new camera. 

"Oh, just something I picked up in China", 
I said jokingly, "It takes pictures in the fourth 
dimension --time." 

Hal handed me the film and gave me a skep- 
tical look, I forked over the money and he rang 
it up. 

"Let me see those 4-D pics when you get 3 em 
ready, " Hal yelled as I walked out the door. 

"Sure, Hal", I answered, ."You : ll be the first, " 

It was a bright day, plenty of Old Sol to get 
some sharp photos, I got into my Chewy and 
drove down town to photograph a new series I was 
working on =- Traffic Problems in the City. I 
left the car at a parking lot and headed for the main 
business district. Spending most of the morning 
shooting with my regular camera, traffic jams, 
jaywalkers, red faced cops and disgusted cab drivers 
I decided to try out my Chinese picture-box, I set. 
the speed for 200, the F stop at 8 and sighted to get 
the two main streets where they cross. I waited to 
get a shot of the "jack rabbits", catching some poor 
pedestrian in the middle of the street as the traffic, 
light changed. Sure enough, it happened and I got 
the picture. I looked up and noticed the big clock 
across the street read 1:39, so i quit for a while 
and went to a hash house for a stomach filler. 

The rest of the day I spent taking more photos 
with my regular camera and forgot all about my 
Chinese box until I was home that night working in 
the dark-room developing the day's pictures. After 
finishing up the last batch, I took out the film from 

the Chinese job. I hadn't taken but 
one photo on the roll but I figured I'd 
to ahead and process the roll anyway just 
to see how "old China" did. I loaded the 
film into the developing tank and waited. 

When the film was finished I hung it 
up to dry. I took a quick look at the nega- 
tive and the picture looked fairly well, good 
contrast. Only on'.- thing seemed pecul 
about it, the street scene was different, or 
at least I didn't remember all those people 
standing around some car- in tV.e stTeet. I 
figured I could get a bettei I >ew when I printed 
the picture so I went out to get a snack while 
the film dried. 

A few hours later. I went, to the dark room 
to print the picture. I set up the enlai ger, 
got the printing paper set on the easel, and 
gave the paper a 15 second exposure. Next 
it went into the developer. That is when I 
really took notice. As the picture began to 
appear, it was different from what J. remember. 
There were two cars. One was a taxi, and the 
other a late model Ford. It was a photo of a 
wreck; the Ford smashed into the side of the 
taxi and a lot of curious spectators milling 
around. But that wasn't what I had taken. I 
put the photo in the stop bath and then in the 

A half hour later, after the photo was dry, 


I was studying it at my desk. Sure, it was the 
same street corner and even the same time, almost 
ten to two (the big clock across the street showed 
up in the photo. ) But how?, why? Could what the 
old Chinese junk dealer said be true -- about this 
camera seeing the future? If it was true, just 
think what photo scoops I could get, what money. 
Why I could - but wait - was it true ? When did 
or will that accident, I had a picture of, take place - 
tomorrow? Next year ? When? Tomorrow I would 
go back to that corner and see if it would happen. 

That night I didn't get much sleep. All I 
could think of was the camera and its possibilities, 
if it were true. Why I could get advanced informa- 
tion or even the race results ahead of time! All 
these thoughts all night, then, dawn finally came, 
I got out of bed and proceeded to butcher my face 
as I tried to shave. I was so excited I gave up the 
shaving and dressed. My breakfast consisted of a 
fast cup of coffee and a "Lucky" - 1 wasn't hungry. 
Pete, the local lunchroom owner, looked at me 
funny. I usually ate a big breakfast and sat around 
and shot the breeze with him but, not today, I was 
in a hurry. 

Back at the corner, where I was the day before, 
I looked at my watch - 9:00 A. M. - the time sure 
passed slow. I had brought "Old China" with me 
so I began to re-examine it. Still it looked like an 
ordinary camera. Only the Chinese hen-scratching 
on it made it different. Looked at my watch again, 
10:18. Then it was 11:05 P then 12:25 The sun was 
hot and bright. Five minutes to one, 1:16. The 


time was nearing. I glanced over to the 
big clock across the street, 1:30 on the 
nose. What time did my photo show? Oh 
yeah, 1:39 or 1:40. I lit up a "Lucky"; 
My hands began to tremble. 1:34 now. 
The traffic was getting heavy-lunch hour. 
1:36 a few minutes to go. The big clock 
read 1:38. 

I looked up the street and there was a 
taxi coming, trying to beat the light change. 
I looked down the other street and there was 
the Ford coming up to the intersection. The 
clock was on 1:39 as the taxi was in the 
center of the crossroads, and "crash" came 
the Ford into its side. People began con- 
gregating around the wreck. I just stood 
there, stunned. The big clock said 1:40. 
The scene was exactly as my photo I took yes- 
terday showed. Could it really be a future 
projector? I held the camera tightly and 
stared at it - here was my fortune. 

Would it work again? I soon found out. 
Over at the race track the next day, I managed 
to get in a day ahead of the races on pretext 
of doing a photo series on race track life. 
The caretaker thought I was just another photog 
getting a story, and I promised to take a shot 
of him and send him a copy, so he let me roam 
around. I took a few shots with my regular 
camera, of the stables, etc. , just to make my 
presence look good. Then I strolled over to 


the results board, where they flash in lights 
the day's winners, odds, etc. I knew the race 
for tomorrow got off at 2:00 P. M. sharp, and it 
took about a minute and a half to two minutes to 
run the course, so I waited until their clock read 
2:02 and took a picture with the Chinese job. I 
snapped three to make sure I got clear photos. 

Back in my room that night, I developed and 
printed the photos, and there were the next day's 
results just as clear as crystal. The winner 
would be a long shot at 20 to 1. I finished up and 
put the photos in a special blue album I had. I 
was going to keep a file on all these future photos. 

At the races the next day, I bet everything I 
had, $130, on the long shot and she won as I knew 
she would. I had old China with me and everyday 
about 2:02 I would take a photo of the results board. 
(The races were to be run for 5 straight days) 
Each night I would go home, develop the pics, arid 
see the next day's results. I managed to get up to 
$8 8 500 by the fourth day. When I went home on the 
fourth day and developed the results for the next 
day's final, the picture showed a complete dark 
horse taking the grand final at a 40 to 1 , I decided 
to sell, my car and hock everything to get $10, 000, 
and placed it on the winner. 

I was $400,000 richer after the race, The 
officials of the track were speechless when I pre- 
sented my claims. They gave me a check which 
I deposited in the First National and received a. 
Little bank book. I was living on easy street now. 

Boy, what I could have done - could have 
I say, because now its going to end. 

I have just a little while left. My 
table clock says 8; 05 now; it ought to be 
soon. You see I know its the end because 
the photo in front of me shows it. This 
photo was snapped by accident yesterday. 
I was working at my desk and had set the 
camera on a table across the room from me. 
It must have been cocked to fire because when 
I went across the room I heard it click. I 
glanced at the camera and saw it was pointed 
where I had been sitting. I laughed and took 
the film out to develop it, to see if I would be 
there 24 hours from now. I would be, the photo 
showed, only I wasn't the only one there. There 
were a group of other men standing around me. 
I was slumped over my desk as if I were asleep. 
The desk clock read 9:27. There were two men 
standing near me and a uniformed cop, he looked 
of oriental origin, was staring at the Chinese 
camera on my desk. I noticed a little black bag 
sitting on my table and it had the words "City 
Coroner" on the sides. City Coroner, I 
thought, only comes when there's - the word 
caught in my throat - death. 

So that was it, I was to die in 24 hours. 
There was nothing I could do about it; the 
camera had never lied. So now I'm just waiting 


and writing this for you. And me in this broken 
room, to die with a fortune in the bank. 

"What do you make of it, Dr. Colton?" 

"Looks like an accident, Lieutenant, "with 
the room so tight and that gas plug cracked, open, 
I guess this fellow slowly suffocated. " 

"You know, Doc, looks like he would have 
opened a window or something." 

"Well, Lt„ , he's got a mighty worried look 
on his face; he might have been worrying so 
about something that he didn't notice the escaping 
gas. Wonder what was on his mind?" 

"Doc, it could have been this blue photo album 
here. " 

"What do you mean, Lieutenant?" 

"All the photographs are blank. " 

"Yes, it could be that." 

"Pardon me, Lieutenant." 

"Yes, Patrolman Wong „ " 

"Well, Sir, I think I know why the photos are 
blank. 1 was just translating the Chinese writing on 
the back of the camera and it says 'this camera has 
no lens . '" 

"Huh?, and here's a bank book with $400, 000 
marked up in it, and he didn't have enough brains to 
buy a lens. This kid must have been way off his 
rocker; no wonder he sat here and let the gas kill, 

"Lieutenant, what time is it?" 

"The clock on his desk says 9:27. " 



By Courtney Pape 
(Winner of the T 954 Mercury Poetry Prize) 

Sweet are the flowers that ever grow, 
In the wild wood, the garden, and field; 
I have seen them all and I know, 
Of the beauty and sweetness they yield. 
But with all of their sweetness combined, 
From the rose to the violet blue, 
Not one equals the charm that I find 
In those lovely sweet features of you. 

The south wind sweeps swiftly over the hill; 
Through the green clover blossoms it roves, 
The little bee drinks ever its. fill, 
And is made drunk with nectar it loves, 
The clover sweet food for the bee , 
But the warm loving touch of your lips 
Is a hundredfold sweeter to me, 
Than the nectar the little bee sips. 

Great men reckon the breadth of the land, 
And they know when the worlds were begun. 
The mountains and plains they have spanned; 
They have measured the heart of the sun, 
They have reckoned the ocean's depth and length, 
And have counted the stars in the blue. 
But. no power can measure the strength, 
Of the love in my heart for you. 



As I watched it grow, day by day, I soon 
realized that it meant more to me than a 
tower. I felt an uncanny interest in the 
progress of that cold, steel structure. I 
saw how it grew from a broad, flat base to 
a stretching pinnacle,, The men who climbed 
it like monkeys seemed far from alien to me. 
I sensed the extreme and close efforts of 
people working towards one goal -- but 
not neglecting their responsibilities to their 
fellow workers' progress. There was a 
stately grace and strength there and yet, even 
more, it was exciting, a feeling of doing some- 
thing that would prove great and beneficial to 
others. This was a living movement completely 
welded by the machine of society. 

As I stood apart, merely observing, I 
felt myself in the midst of the building, drawn 
unconsciously to the builders. Slowly, girder 
by girder, the giant iron cone rose. It seemed 
to get up off its knees and stand. At seemingly 
important intervals red lanterns adorned the 
tower, enhancing its beauty and fortifying it 
from its enemy - the steel bat. 

And so someone's dream has become a 

As I pondered over the meaning it held 


for me, I realized that there is such a tower in my 
own life* Everyday I work on it -- either by putting 
in another girder or by securing ones already there 
(perhaps put in the day before by a fellow worker), 
I have started with a broad, flat base - twelve years 
in the public schools. Now I want to labor for height 
I am struggling still, but I have climbed at least a 
little off the ground. Two years at Armstrong have 
begun to shape my tower. 

There are many weaknesses in the structure 
but the friends I love are helping me to strepgthen 
them, We climb together, and though I call it my 
tower, it is theirs, too. We posses it so that some 
day we may give it. Each of us sees his tower 
stretching towards a different pinnacle of purpose. 

As the work progresses, we will sometimes be- 
come afraid of the height. (We are already, though 
we have barely started, ) Still, we know that if we 
raise our heads, the altitude we have attained will 
give us strength and encourage us to go even higher. 
And so we keep on building , 

Once in a while we discover the red lanterns in 
our lives that we can produly display on our tower. 
Some of us may find that truth, love, faith, trust, 
or the light of God are the protection we need. 
Against our enemies, the growing cone must prove 
a citadel, and too, a victor. 

Someday, when our inward towers are completed, 
they will begin their usefulness. Our towers must be 
the receivers and our lives the interpreters. If they 


were not made for some good -- then 
why? May we build cautiously and per- 
fectly -- and eternally! 

Again I feel the excitement of comrad 
ship, of building, of dreaming. 

Sue Zoucks 

%t % fr & j$: j£ % fy 

Most of us know how to say nothing; 
few of us know when. -- Anonymous 

The human mind has an entrance and 
and exit. The exit is much larger. -- 
John W. Raper 

He who sees bis own faults is too much 
occupied to see the faults of others. -- 
Arabic Proverb 

A little more determination, a little 
more pluck, a little more work • - 
That's Luck. 

Epitaph for Benjamin Franklin: "The 
body of Benjamin Franklin, Printer, (like 
the cover of an old book, its contents torn 
out and stripped of its lettering and gilding), 
lies here feed for worms, yet the work itself 
shall not be lost, for it will (as he believes) 
appear once more in a new and more beautiful 
Edition corrected and amended bv the Author," 


When my life has wearied of its duel with" death 

And yields to that foe, 

What mercy to the vanquished will the fated 

Conqueror show? 

Thumbs upward cast ? 

Or downward bent? 

Or, forever in a coffin pent? 

--Jimmy Rowe 

$ $ >Je %. $ %. 


I saw a piece of wood wash up from the choppy sea, 

And, in a melancholy mood, I likened it to me. 

Tossed and whipped by merciless tide, 

Then spent by its exhaustive ride, 

Sapped and useless, cast aside. 

I watched it lying in the sand, and soon 

It was buried by a drifting dune. 

-- Jimmy Rowe 

sjc >'f ^ 'fi >S % 



When love hits you, what will you do? 
I cannot say and neither can you. 
Somehow you are lonely, somehow lost; 
Just must see her, matters not the cost. 

When love hits you, what will you do? 
You get so lonesome, so awful blue; 
Time travels slowly, you cannot wait, 
To meet your love at the college gate. 

When love hits you, what will you do? 
Waith and watch till she comes into view? 
Take her in your arms, sweetly caress? 
Hear your heart pound, you know the rest. 

When love hits you, what will you do? 
Tell her of all the love you ever knew? 
Even then your heart cannot ever say, 
Just what it wishes, just what it may. 

When love hits you, what will you do? 
Ever keep loving, thoughtful, and true? 
Faint hearts grow weak each and every day, 
If you do not love the same old way. 

When love hits you, what will you do? 
The goal is reached, save only by few. 
But when it is reached, the joy comes too, 
So when love hi's you - then do - dc do. 

- - Courtney Pape 



A lone statue stands the guard 

Out. in Walter's shrub strewn courtyard. 

And tho ! surrounded by life, ^ts countenance is dead, 

Motionless, expressionless , imseeing - dread, 

It stares on the young grass - with sightless eyes 

Nodding to winds quick breaths or sighs. 

The clinging ivy has gently caressed. 

But never swelled that stone, cold breast. 

Its smell is immune to fern and sweet roses, 

and the joy of their fragrance in stone reposes. 

It is oblivious to all -- life., love, beauty, joy -- all. 

Yet, when it rains, a strange thing appears. 

Lonely tears stream down its cheeks and fall. 

= = - Jimmy Rowe 

Life is a grindstone, and whether it grinds a man 
down or polishes him up depends on the stuff he's 
made of. 

A great man shows his greatness by the way he 
treats little men. -- Carlyle 



As I lookout the window at the softly falling rain, 
with the last leaves of Autumn settling, never 

to rise again, 
I ache with longing to see 
Sunshine, life, and gaiety. 

This drab room of mine, lit only by the fire 
Casting shadows on the wall, 
Serves even more to heighten my desire, 
And enhance this season we call 
The trees are withered and dead now, all but 

a treasured few; 
And, inside of me, I have died a little too. 
Waiting for the earth to spring to life anew. 

Howling winds rattle the pane, 

Stirring thoughts of morbid refrain. 

And I think "this ominous shroud that hovers 

o'er us 
Is a black reminder that we mortals too must 
Wither and die and turn to dust." 

Jimmy Rowe 



The Dixie Limited clacked along the tarnished 
rails which followed the ancient footroads from the 
primitive villages of Hokkaido to the modern, cos- 
mopolitan city of Tokyo, Here I was making my 
second trip in a period of eight months to the Mecca 
cf Japan. It was for this same pilgrimaage that thou- 
sands of Japanese toiled a lifetime to earn the funds 
which would enable them to travel unbelieveahle dis- 
tances for the satisfaction of "going up to Tokyo" be- 
fore they died. Japan was under the Occupation 
forces and the Emporer had renounced his divinity. 
Yet, devout pilgrims continued to make their way to 
Tokyo, if only to catch a fleeting glimpse of Hirohito 
as he passed by a gate in the palace wall. 

Five hours had passed since I boarded the train 
and there were almost twice as many more to while 
away before I'd feel the grinding wheels screech, to 
rest in Tokyo Terminal Station. I was tired and the 
car was a bit too warm, I knew I should sleep but 
the seat was uncomfortable and I wanted to think of 
the Silent One, Dai-butsu, who had attracted me to 
his dwelling. In grade school I first learned of him 
in a geography book, I was impressed by him as 
much as by the Pyramids or the Empire State Building, 
Later I saw him; the nonchalant mask of his face 
adorning posters in travel bureaus. He was created 
in the thirteenth century and still lived, undisturbed 
by time and the puny conflicts of mortals. I would 
not stop in Tokyo this time, The thirty-six miles 
that lay between that metropolis and the coastal town 
of Kamakura, The Great Buddha's home, I would 
travel by bus , 


When next my mind was conscious of 
its thoughts, I heard the porter rousing the 
occupants in the next car. We were in Tokyo; 
I had fallen asleep exhausted, and now it was 
morning. As I later walked out of the station, 
a chill wind affirmed the presence of February's 
winter. Walking to the bus, the reawakened 
voice of the sleeping city sounded muffred to 
my ears. The bus filled with passengers, 
mostly Japanese, and J was glad to be heading 
out of the city a few minutes later at a brisk 

It was mid-morning when we halted in the 
bustling town. An obvious odor of cooking rice 
and fish greeted my nostrils as I stepped out of 
the bus. Here life continued little changed from 
its higher state of seven hundred years before 
when this small town was capital of the empire. 
Dynasties changed; sons and daughters were 
born to a simple fisherman who lived in h.s 
fragile dwelling by the sea; austere priests still 
served in the temple of Dai-butsu. 

Following the mass of dwarfed, kimono-clad 
pilgrims, I came near to a structure which looked 
ridiculous, yet marvelous in its weirdity. It 
straddled a narrow stream some ten feet wide, 
towering above the water easily twenty feet. It 
was an ancient arch-bridge, fashioned of smooth 
brick, deftly erected with little thought to its 
practical usage. 

At the temple gates I. paused to turn and 


admire this flawless arch far in the distance. In- 
side the gates, above the slim trees before me T 
could distinguish an awesome head. Then, little by 
little, walking slowly forward, I could see monstrous 
shoulders, then hands clasped and resting on the knees 
of folded legs. It loomed in front of me now, casting 
a shadow which blacked out. the sky behind if and com- 
manded a hushed stillness, broker. by the wind 
and the chirp of bird? in the surrounding trees. I 
brought my camera up and ca,ptured the serene smile 
on that massive face. To myself I thought, "So t] 
is Buddha!" 

He sat on a stone base which I walked some eighty 
feet around, gazing up at the bowed head which must 
have been close to fifty feet high. All around the idol, 
inside a narrow plot circumscribing the base, lay a 
dozen bronze tablets. Each of these was covered 
with inscriptions in Japanese characters representing 
the countless families who had contributed through the 
years small donations for the perpetuation of Dai- 
butsu's shrine. 

I roamed about the yard, seeking a new view of 
the idol from a better vantage point. No matter where 
one stood he could see the grand figure, shining golden, 
in the bright sunlight. It sat in an attitude of humility, 
its face reflecting an expression of sympathy, courage., 
contentment, pity, peace, or wrath, depending on the 
desires of the watcher. 

This was the twentieth century when men were real 
and logical in their thinking, and there I was a product 
of this scientific, age, staring at a monument from the 
past. Was this awesome giant looking down on me, 


filling me with wonder, humbling me as 
a mouse before an elephant, was this in- 
animate thing an inspiration tothe animate 
desires of man? Did it bestow miraculous 
gifts on those who trusted in it? Do all men, 
sooner or later, realize their physical weakness 
and seek supernatural strength in the devotion 
to a material symbol, created by their own hands ? 
I felt small, belittled as though I had been con- 
fronted by a lie. Dai-butsu was there, and had 
been for centuries, directing the thoughts and 
destinies of man and nations. And here was I, 
who would live my numbered mortal days, unim- 
portant to the world and powerless to direct any 
but my own thoughts. 

But there, braced against the idol's knee, 
was the reminder which brought me face to face 
with reality and the scoffing submission of modern 
man to old-fashioned myths. It was a small wooden 
plaque, white with black letters, with a message 
for American Occupation Personnel. It said, 
"Do Not Climb On The Statue. This is Considered 
A Sacred Object For Which Respect Is Requested. " 

Bill Fuhrman 


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The Staff of The Mercury is sincerely 
grateful to those whose efforts made 
the publication of this magazine a suc- 
cess -- the writers whose works are 
contained in these pages; the Armstrong 
Alumni Association for their donation of 
prize money for the contest; the very 
capable judges of our contest, Dr. Irving 
Victor, Dr. Dave Robinson, Mrs. Marg- 
aret Lubs, and Mr. Orson Beecher; . 
Miss June Piatt, our typist; Mr. C.Li 
Floyd, our printer; and Southern Fer- 
tilizer and Chemical Company .for the 
use of their printing equipment.